


Recipe for Disaster

by ominousunflower



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Baking, Cooking, F/M, Humor, Marichat, Slight Season 3 spoilers, adrienette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ominousunflower/pseuds/ominousunflower
Summary: Alya bets Adrien that he can’t cook, and Marinette gets roped into being his cooking partner for the bet. Meanwhile, out of the blue, Chat Noir begs Marinette for cooking lessons...but of course, those two things are entirely unrelated.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 173
Kudos: 634





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just so y'all know, I wrote most of this before Season 3 was finished...so let’s either (a) ignore the end of Season 3, or (b) say that this took place sometime during Season 3. 
> 
> P.S. I slightly modified canon in a few places—for example, I totally made up Salade de Fruits, along with the bakery’s cooking area. So there might be a few things here that don’t completely match the show.

One Monday afternoon, sitting with her three friends in the cafeteria, Marinette witnesses the beginning of the end for Adrien Agreste.

The conversation had started out innocently enough: they’d been thanking Alya for the dinner they had at her apartment the other night, where she’d cooked up a phenomenal curry for the four of them.

“We should all repay the favor sometime,” Nino suggests. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh!” Alya says. “Like, we have dinner at each of our places? And each of us cooks for the other three?”

“Yeah,” Nino says. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“It _would_ be,” Alya says. “But rich-and-famous here has probably never turned on a stove in his life.”

“I know how cooking works!” Adrien protests loudly. “I’m not stupid.”

“Oh?” Alya says. She steeples her fingers in front of her face. “So if I asked you to cook dinner for the four of us this Friday, you could?”

“I—I mean. I’m not a professional chef, so it would be hard for me to juggle too many dishes. I might…uh…” His eyes slide over to Marinette, who’s sitting next to him. “Need help?”

Oh, that’s for certain. Adrien definitely needs help right now.

“Alright, top model,” Alya says. “So if, say, Marinette helped you out—”

“Alya!” Marinette says. “Don’t drag me into this!”

“Then you could put together a meal?” Alya finishes.

“Absolutely,” Adrien says.

Marinette glares at Alya. “Why me?”

“Because you’re clumsy enough that you won’t give him an advantage,” Alya says. Before Marinette can properly feel insulted, Alya leans close and whispers, “And because it means you get to spend _quality time_ with lover boy over there.”

“Alya!” Marinette says.

“I don’t think you’re a disadvantage, Marinette,” Adrien says, smiling. “Why don’t we both take this opportunity to prove Alya wrong?”

Knowing that she’ll regret it, Marinette nods. “Okay.”

She’s almost positive that this won’t end well for Adrien. She’s also pretty sure that her _quality time_ with him will consist of setting pans on fire and dropping ingredients on the ground. But if there’s even a slight chance that she can save him from embarrassment, or make a bit of progress in the romance department, she’ll take it.

“Great!” Adrien says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Judging by his slightly wide-eyed look, he is not looking forward to it.

“Ah!” Alya says, holding up a finger. “One more thing.”

Marinette watches Adrien’s entire body go rigid. “Ah—what would that be?”

“Stakes,” Alya says. “Every bet needs stakes.”

Adrien smiles uneasily. “Is that so?”

“If you win…” Alya considers. “You get to pick the next three shows we binge watch together.”

“But it was going to be my turn next!” Nino says.

“Sorry, babe,” Alya says. “I have to offer him something valuable.”

Nino groans. “You know he’s going to pick one of those anime shows that has, like, one hundred episodes, right?”

“Three,” Adrien says gleefully. “She said I could pick _three.”_

Of course, Marinette realizes what Alya must be thinking: that even with Marinette’s assistance—if it can be called that—Adrien still probably won’t be able to pull this off. Otherwise Alya wouldn’t have offered something so sacred to the devoted weeaboo in their midst.

“That’s right,” Alya says. “Any three shows—but three hundred episodes, max. We can only take so much.”

“And if you win?” Adrien asks.

“Make him buy us pizza that night so that we don’t starve,” Nino says.

Adrien snorts. “I can do that.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of implied,” Alya says. “But for the actual bet…”

The entire table holds its breath as she deliberates. What could Adrien possibly offer in return, that’s equal to three hundred episodes of anime? 

“I’ve got it!” Alya says, grinning. “If I win, you and Marinette have to take my sisters to a Salade de Fruits concert.”

“Oh, man,” Nino says. “Alya, that’s harsh.”

Adrien’s face is that of a man who has just been handed a wasp nest on a stick. “You—you mean the kid’s band with the—the—”

“That’s right,” Alya says. “And they _really_ like Monsieur Banane. They’ll probably want to get an autograph from him. Maybe a picture with all five of you.”

“A…picture…” Adrien’s skin looks vaguely green. _Like an unripe banana,_ Marinette’s traitorous mind says.

“Is there something I’m missing?” Marinette asks.

Alya shrugs. “Apparently Adrien has some sort of strange hatred toward Monsieur Banane and the rest of the band. Don’t ask me why.”

At that, Adrien seems to snap out of his panicked daze. “Wait. I never told you that.”

“No,” Alya says. “Nino mentioned it to me.”

“Nino!” Adrien says.

“I’m sorry!” Nino says. “I thought it was common knowledge!”

“Why would I tell Alya about my aversion to Monsieur Banane?”

“To be fair, you never really told me about it, either,” Nino says. “I still have no idea why you hate him so much.”

“It’s the suit,” Adrien says, crossing his arms. “I don’t like it. It’s too yellow. And banana-y.”

Marinette nods. “It is both of those things.”

Of course, she has her own strange relationship with the banana suit, since she’s fought alongside it twice when Chat was forced to wear it to battle. Marinette makes a mental note to design him a backup suit that is neither yellow nor banana-y.

“Please, Alya,” Adrien says. “Anything but that. You can even change your terms! I don’t need three hundred episodes of anime. I’ll accept thirty. Or fifteen. Or a commemorative keychain.” He glances at Marinette with wide, pleading eyes that say, _Please talk your best friend out of this sadistic idea._

“What are you worried about?” Alya says. “As long as your cooking is passable, there shouldn’t be any problem.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you _don’t_ know how to use an oven after all…?”

“No, you’re right,” Adrien says firmly. “I have nothing to worry about.” His feigned confidence is really quite impressive. Marinette almost believes him. “You’re on, Césaire.”

As Marinette watches Adrien and Alya shake hands across the table, though, she knows there’s no way on earth that Adrien Agreste is going to pull this off.

* * *

Later that day, the terms of the bet are clarified over text. Friday morning, Alya will present Adrien with five recipes to choose from, and he’ll make his selection; then she and Nino will buy the ingredients and bring them to Marinette’s house after school. Marinette can tell Adrien where different kitchen utensils are kept, and she can prep or mix some ingredients for him—but the bulk of the cooking has to be done by Adrien.

Despite her nerves when it comes to talking with Adrien, Marinette works up the courage to send him a text after school. _Are you sure about this bet with Alya?_

Almost instantly, Adrien responds. Marinette wonders if he was about to text her. _Sure! As long as she doesn’t ask me to make a soufflé or something, I’ll be fine._

Marinette frowns at her phone. She doesn’t want to push, but she’s almost positive that Adrien has no idea what he’s doing in a kitchen. _Do you want me to text you some cooking guides or something?_

_Marinette! I told you, I know how cooking works!_

It’s so adorably petulant that Marinette can’t help but laugh. _So you don’t need any guides?_

 _I guess you can send them if it will make you feel better =^.^=_

“If it will make me feel better,” Marinette mutters. “Tikki, can you believe him? Who is he trying to fool?”

“He’s probably just embarrassed!” Tikki says, perching on Marinette’s shoulder. “He grew up in a different environment. Maybe he didn’t have anyone to teach him how to cook when he was younger.”

Marinette sighs. “You’re right.” Often, she forgets that Adrien missed out on a lot of common life experiences when he was younger: sleepovers, birthday parties, going to concerts. It makes sense that he doesn’t know how to cook. It’s also kind of sad, when she thinks about it. “Okay, I’ll play along.”

 _I’ll send you a few links,_ Marinette texts him. _That way you can brush up on anything you’ve forgotten. Also, you should be prepared in case Alya decides to throw you a curveball. You know she probably will._

 _Ugh. That’s a good point,_ Adrien responds. _Thanks, Marinette! You’re the best :)_

Marinette can’t stop herself from squealing. She’s glad he can’t hear her over text. “Tikki!” she says. “He said I was the best!” She clutches her phone to her chest. “The best! But—the best at what?” She glances at Tikki frantically. “What does he mean? Am I the best in general? The best at texting? The best at sending cooking guides?” Groaning, she falls onto her chaise lounge. “What does he _mean_ , Tikki?”

Tikki giggles. “I don’t know! But make sure you text him back.”

Marinette sits up. “Right! Cooking guides.”

After searching for fifteen minutes, she manages to find three guides that are easy to understand without being patronizing. Hoping she doesn’t offend Adrien, she sends him the links.

A minute later, he replies. _These look good! Thanks again, Marinette :)_

Not one, but _two_ smiley faces? Is Adrien Agreste trying to kill her? Marinette feels like she just stuck her face in front of an open oven.

 _No problem!_ she texts back. Then she throws her phone on the ground, grabs the nearest pillow-like object (her purse), and screams into it.

“Marinette?” Tikki says. “Is that a happy scream, or a bad one?”

“It’s a _je-ne-sais-pas_ one,” Marinette grumbles. “On one hand, I get to spend hours in the kitchen with the love of my life. On the other hand, _I have to spend hours in the kitchen with the love of my life.”_

“Um.” Tikki blinks. “You just said the same thing twice.”

“Because I don’t know!” Marinette says. “It’s a great excuse to spend time with Adrien, but there’s no way he’s going to learn how to cook by Friday. I don’t want to watch him embarrass himself.” She sighs. “And I _know_ I’m going to embarrass myself, too. I’m always more of a klutz around him. I’ll probably just make things worse.”

“Don’t say that, Marinette!” Tikki says. “Maybe things will work out. Adrien’s smart! I’m sure he can teach himself.” She nudges Marinette’s cheek. “And you’ll be fine, too! You’re Ladybug. You can handle a few hours in the kitchen with Adrien.”

“Right,” Marinette says. “I can…handle…”

But her brain is stuck on the phrase _hours in the kitchen with Adrien._ Adrien, standing in her kitchen! Adrien, using her favorite spatula! Adrien, throwing vegetable peels in her compost bin! 

What if his hips brush hers as he walks to the trash can? What if they both reach for the hand grater at the same time, and their fingers touch? Marinette can see it in her mind: Adrien glances up, cheeks faintly pink, and says, _“You can have it. I’ll use the box grater.”_

“Adrien,” she sighs, lying back down on the chaise lounge with a dreamy smile.

By Friday, of course, she’ll be panicking, and her kitchen will be a disaster area. But it doesn’t hurt to fantasize in the meantime.

* * *

That night, just as Marinette is drifting off to sleep, an idea pops into her mind like spitting oil.

“Lessons!” she says, sitting up.

Tikki hums sleepily from the pillow. “Lessons?”

“Adrien,” Marinette says, feeling around for her phone. “I completely forgot he has a personal chef! I bet she can help him.” Squinting at her screen in the darkness, she pulls up her last conversation with him. “I just have to make him think it’s his idea, not mine.”

She quickly sends Adrien a text. _You have a personal chef, right? If you need any refreshers before Alya’s challenge on Friday, maybe you could check with her._

“Marinette,” Tikki says, “why didn’t you wait until the morning? It’s almost midnight.”

Marinette stares at her phone in horror as the text delivers. “Oh, mon dieu. It’s midnight. I’m going to wake Adrien up, and he’s not going to get enough sleep—and sleep deprivation can affect you for days, so he’s going to be tired on Friday, and it’s going to be my fault if he—”

“Oh, look!” Tikki says. “He responded.”

“Ack!” Marinette tosses her phone at the foot of the bed. “I can’t look. He’s probably mad at me.”

Why is Adrien awake this late at night? Suddenly, Marinette has a terrible vision of Adrien staring at his phone for hours, frantically reading cooking guides until he can’t keep his eyes open.

Tikki floats to the edge of the bed and peers at Marinette’s discarded phone. “Don’t worry! He’s not.”

Hesitantly, Marinette crawls over to the phone and glances down at the text.

_Probably not an option. I asked her a question about chicken earlier and she chased me out of the kitchen snapping her tongs at me._

Marinette snorts. _She didn’t._

_She did. I’m just glad she was holding tongs instead of a knife._

As Marinette types a response, her stomach growls loudly. “Ugh,” she says. “I shouldn’t have gotten up. Now I’m hungry.”

“Does that mean we can get a midnight snack?” Tikki asks excitedly. She’s always eager for an excuse to eat more sweets.

“I think so,” Marinette says.

Sighing, she climbs down from her bed and slips downstairs. In the kitchen, she fumbles along the wall for the light switch, until Tikki manages to find it instead. A moment later, the kitchen is flooded with soft yellow light.

As Marinette creeps toward the counter, her phone buzzes with another text from Adrien.

_So is there a reason you were lying awake at midnight thinking about my personal chef?_

Marinette knows she can’t tell Adrien the truth—that she’s worried he has no idea how to cook—so she settles for a half-truth instead. _My stomach was growling. It made me wish I had a personal chef so I wouldn’t have to make myself a midnight snack._

_A midnight snack? So what’s on the menu, Chef Dupain-Cheng?_

Marinette glances at Tikki. There’s really only one answer. _Cookies._

 _A true delicacy,_ Adrien responds.

Marinette smiles at Adrien’s response as she drags the cookie jar across the counter. _Do those even exist in your house?_

_In my secret stash :3_

_I’ll bring cookies to school tomorrow,_ Marinette types. _They’ll be better than your stash._

_Really?_

She can imagine his expression as he reads her text: wide-eyed, mouth open slightly. It’s the same adorable look he wears every time Marinette brings pastries to class.

 _Of course!_ Marinette says. _It’s no trouble. I live in a bakery, after all._

_Are you sure? You don’t have to bring me cookies, you know._

Tikki nudges Marinette’s arm and gestures to the cookie jar. Laughing quietly, Marinette lifts the lid for her, then types a response to Adrien. _Think of them as fuel! You’ll need extra energy this week if you’re going to win Alya’s bet._

She winces as she hits send. Why did she have to bring up that sore spot again? The conversation had been going surprisingly well until she did that! Now Adrien’s probably never going to text her again.

 _I don’t need energy,_ Adrien replies. _Just a little luck, maybe. Good thing I have this!_

Marinette’s heart melts when a photo pops up on her phone screen. It’s a picture of Adrien’s hand, holding the Lucky Charm that she gave him.

“Tikki!” Marinette says. “He still has it!”

“Of course he does,” Tikki says, nibbling on a cookie.

“Oh, no!” Marinette says. “I left mine upstairs! I—I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it!” Tikki says.

For a long moment, she glances at the cookie in her paws. Then, with the kwami equivalent of a shrug, she opens her mouth wider than Marinette’s ever seen and shoves the entire cookie down her throat.

Marinette stares at her, aghast. “Tikki. Where did it _go?”_

As if nothing’s happened, Tikki darts back through the open trapdoor to Marinette’s room. She returns a moment later with the lucky charm that Adrien gave Marinette for her birthday.

Hastily, Marinette holds up the charm and takes a photo. She sends it to Adrien with the message, _I have mine too!_

_Double the luck :)_

Marinette finally grabs a cookie and takes a bite, texting with one hand. _So if all you need is luck…you don’t want me to bring you cookies tomorrow?_

Adrien’s reply comes almost immediately, and in three parts:

 _I DIDN’T SAY THAT_  
_PLEASE STILL BRING COOKIES  
_ _marinette i swear you and your family are the only people around here who actually know how to make cookies_

A smile spreads across Marinette’s face. She takes another bite of her cookie, scattering crumbs on her hand as she does. _That’s because other bakers in this arrondissement are mystified by American recipes._

_Well, I’m mystified by your incredible baking skills._

Blushing, Marinette pops the rest of the cookie in her mouth. _Flattery accepted. I’ll bring you cookies tomorrow._

Adrien’s response consists of confetti emojis.

 _Also,_ Marinette types. _I’m no professional chef, but you can text me if you have any questions before Friday. I’m not sure if I’m a good teacher, but I did teach Nino how to bake a pie for his parents’ anniversary once, so…_

As soon as she hits send, she realizes that she’s implied Adrien needs cooking lessons. Hastily, she sends a second message. 

_Not that you need lessons! I just meant that if you have any last-minute questions, you can ask me._

Adrien responds, _Yeah, Nino told me about that! He said you’re a good teacher :) And honestly, my baking skills are pretty bad. Would you teach me how to bake a pie, if I asked?_

Marinette barely smothers a squeal. She doesn’t want to wake her parents up by screaming in the kitchen—but how can she _not,_ when Adrien just asked her for baking lessons? Forget Alya’s bet. _This_ is Marinette’s opportunity to spend more time with Adrien.

Her mind drifts back to her fantasies from earlier about being in the kitchen with Adrien. She hugs her arms around herself, imagining how he’d wrap his arms around her from behind as she mixes ingredients. His chin on her shoulder, maybe a kiss behind her ear…

Her phone buzzes with another text, startling her. _Obviously you don’t have to, if it would be too much trouble._

 _No, no!_ Marinette responds. _I’d love to! But let’s get through this week, first ;)_

She gasps as the text delivers. “Oh, no!”

“What’s wrong?” Tikki asks. She’s clutching another cookie. Marinette has no idea how many she’s eaten so far.

“I—I sent a _winky face!”_ Marinette says. “Oh, this is a disaster!”

Seconds later, she nearly faints at Adrien’s response: _Okay! But after that, you’re teaching me how to bake. It can be my reward for winning Alya’s bet ;)_

“Tikki!” Marinette says. “ _He_ sent a winky face!”

Tikki giggles quietly. “You two are flirting!”

“We aren’t flirting,” Marinette hisses. “We’re just—just—urgh!”

She decides to reply with something safe. _I’m looking forward to it :)_

_Me too! But I should probably go to bed now. I’ll see you tomorrow! Enjoy your midnight snack._

_You too,_ Marinette responds. _I mean, I’ll see you tomorrow. I wasn’t saying to enjoy your midnight snack, because you don’t have a midnight snack._ Face burning, she adds, _Bonne nuit!_

_Bonne nuit, Marinette :)_

She sets her phone on the counter, trying to take measured breaths. “Tikki! How—how many emoticons was that?”

Tikki floats over to Marinette’s phone and scrolls back through the conversation. “Five!”

Marinette gasps. “Five! He sent five?” She grabs the phone and looks through the conversation. “Oh, mon dieu. You’re right. Five! Combined with our conversation earlier…” She scrolls back further and counts three more—including a cat emoticon, which she’d somehow failed to notice earlier. Odd. “Eight! He sent me eight emoticons today!”

“You’re making progress, Marinette!” Tikki says, smiling. “Now you just need to work on talking to him in person!”

Marinette groans. “That’s harder. I can only text him because I’m not looking at his face! And because I can’t stutter over text.”

With a sigh, she peers inside the cookie jar to pick the nicest ones for Adrien. Then she freezes. “Tikki.”

“I’m sorry!” Tikki says, eyes wide. “I wasn’t paying attention!”

Marinette stares at the empty cookie jar for a few more seconds. “I can check downstairs,” she says. “There might be some extra cookies lying around.”

As she crosses to the apartment door, she thinks back over her conversation with Adrien. She’d been hoping his chef could help him, but if not…

“Maybe Adrien does know how to cook!” Marinette says. “He could just be self-conscious or embarrassed. After all, he’s smart and talented! He must know how to make _something.”_

“Maybe!” Tikki agrees. “But there’s nothing wrong with him if he doesn’t!”

“Right,” Marinette says. “Of course! I just meant—”

With a tiny gasp, Tikki suddenly darts into the bookshelf and hides.

“Tikki?” Marinette says. “What…”

Before she can finish her question, she hears something tapping against the window glass behind her. As Marinette slowly turns around, she can’t believe her eyes. Shaded by moonlight, Chat Noir is clinging to the window of her living room, one hand raised in greeting.

Marinette stumbles over to the window and unlatches it, then cracks it open a few centimeters. “Chat Noir!” she whispers. “What are you doing here?”

He grins. “Looking for a midnight snack?”

Crossing her arms, Marinette says, “I hope you’re talking about food, and not me.”

Still smiling, he asks, “Can I come in?”

With a sigh, Marinette pushes the window open the rest of the way. “Just keep your voice down. My parents are asleep.”

“Of course,” Chat says. He climbs inside and carefully closes the window behind him, then smiles at Marinette. “Cute pajamas, by the way.”

Marinette’s face burns. She hugs her arms closer to her chest. “I didn’t expect to have company.”

“Apologies,” Chat says. “I decided to come here rather spontaneously.”

“Of course you did,” Marinette mutters.

Chat’s ears flatten slightly, and Marinette winces. She’d forgotten about his enhanced hearing. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

“No! No. Um, you can follow me,” Marinette says, walking back to the front door of the apartment. “I was just about to look for cookies downstairs. If you behave yourself, I _might_ give you one.”

With an excited chirp— _how_ does he make such convincing cat sounds?—Chat follows her out the door and down the stairs.

As they walk, Marinette tries not to let her confusion show on her face. Of course, she’s not uncomfortable spending time with Chat, since they’re partners. But he rarely comes by the bakery. In fact, she can count on one hand the number of times he’s visited when there wasn’t an akuma attack. What could possibly have inspired him to stop by now?

Marinette knows that he probably won’t tell her his real reason. For all of his extroversion and cheer, Chat is surprisingly guarded about some things.

“So,” Marinette says, as she lets them into the bakery. “Did you run into traffic on the way here?”

Chat laughs. “No. Surprisingly, there aren’t too many cars on the rooftops at this time of night.”

Marinette flicks on the lights, illuminating the room. Although she’s lived in the bakery her entire life, she still finds it eerie sometimes to see the space downstairs empty and quiet, without the scent of fresh-baked goods or the sound of her parents’ voices.

“It’s bizarre, seeing the place so quiet,” Chat says, voicing her thoughts. His nose twitches. “Usually there are smells, and sounds, and…well, people.”

“Well, we’re people,” Marinette says, smiling. She opens one of the gigantic fridges and peers inside. “Let’s see…”

“Whoa,” Chat says. “Marinette, that fridge is huge.”

“Paws to yourself, minou,” she says.

“I’ll try.”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette begins searching the fridge for leftover cookies. When that fails, she checks around the rest of the bakery, peering into various containers and shelves.

“Merde,” she mutters.

“No luck?” Chat asks. “You know, we don’t _have_ to eat cookies. Some of those other leftovers looked pretty good.”

“But I need cookies for Adrien!” Marinette exclaims. When Chat raises his eyebrows, she finds herself blushing and adding, “I—I promised my friend that I would bring him cookies tomorrow.”

“Hm.” Chat shrugs. “If you tell him you ran out, I’m sure he’ll understand. You can just bring him a croissant or some—”

“No!” Marinette says. “No, I promised cookies.”

Chat glances around the bakery, then back at her. “Princesse, you’re not going to bake a batch _now,_ are you?”

“Oh, I certainly am.” Marinette scampers around the kitchen, turning on the oven and pulling out various utensils and ingredients. “My parents won’t mind. It’s not the first time I’ve done some late-night baking.” She slams two mixing bowls onto the counter and grabs a measuring cup, then hastily measures out the flour into one of the bowls. “You can wait here. It won’t take too long.”

Chat strolls around to the other side of the counter and leans against it, watching her work. “I’ve never tried making cookies before,” he says. “Is it hard?”

“American cookie recipes can be a little tricky if you don’t have the right ingredients,” Marinette says, as she adds salt and baking powder into the bowl. “You have to make a few adjustments. Sometimes there are differences in flour, brown sugar, things like that.”

Resting his chin on his hands, Chat says, “Seems like you’re pretty good at this.”

“Obviously,” Marinette says. She turns to the other bowl and dumps in the sugar. “My parents are bakers, Chat.”

“Right. And, uh…how’s your cooking?”

“I mean, I know what I’m doing in the kitchen,” she says, dropping sticks of butter into the bowl of sugar. “Sometimes I overcook things or make mistakes, but that’s mostly because I’m clumsy.”

Chat nods and hums to himself, as if Marinette has said something particularly intriguing. “Interesting.”

Pausing, Marinette glances up. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Chat smiles mischievously. “Just thinking.”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette retrieves the hand mixer and plugs it into the nearest outlet. She doesn’t have time to worry about Chat’s cryptic remarks. She needs to focus on making cookies for Adrien.

The next few minutes pass in silence, aside from the whirring of the mixer and the scraping of Marinette’s spatula against the sides of the bowl. As she works, she feels Chat’s eyes on her, tracking her every movement.

“Am I really that interesting to watch?” she asks, as she finishes creaming the butter and sugar. Cheeks burning, she adds the eggs to the mixture and stirs after each addition. “You’re staring.”

Chat blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Cheeks burning, Marinette pours the dry ingredients into the mixing bowl. “You know,” she says, as she mixes the dough, “you could make yourself useful, instead of just sitting there.”

“I’m not _just_ sitting here,” Chat says, with a lopsided smile. “I’m giving moral support.”

“Well, why don’t you take that ‘moral support’ and use it to pour those chocolate disks into this bowl?”

“Uh.” Chat tentatively picks up the bowl of chocolate. “Like…how, exactly?”

Marinette raises an eyebrow. “Just dump them in?”

“Sure.” Chat frowns, then pours the chocolate pieces into the bowl of dough. “Like that?”

“Yes.” Marinette gently stirs until the chocolate is incorporated into the dough. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, you could also put some cookies on that baking sheet for me.”

Distantly, she knows she shouldn’t be so commanding with Chat. But it’s so easy to fall into their usual camaraderie, especially when he acts so casually around her. She keeps forgetting she’s not Ladybug right now.

Chat grimaces. “I could, but…I’ve never made cookies before. I have no idea what to do.”

Marinette tries not to act shocked. After all, plenty of people have never made cookies. “It’s simple,” she says. She grabs a scoop and uses it to plop a ball of cookie dough onto the baking sheet. Then she hands the scoop to Chat. “Think you can handle that?”

As if he’s handling a dangerous weapon, Chat accepts the scoop from Marinette. “Uh, sure.”

Marinette presses her lips together, watching as Chat mirrors her movements and deposits a ball of cookie dough next to the first. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him this nervous before. “Like that?” he asks.

“Just like that,” Marinette says. “Now do the rest.”

Tongue pinned between his teeth, Chat makes several more cookie balls. “You know, princesse,” he says, as he makes his seventh, “I came by for food, not labor.”

“If you want to eat cookies, then you should help make them,” Marinette says.

“But aren’t they for Adrien?” Chat asks, a smile playing at his lips. “Doesn’t that mean _he_ should help make them?”

“I—uh!” Marinette laughs nervously and wills her mind not to conjure any more fantasies of baking with Adrien. Not while Chat is there to make fun of her. “He’s asleep right now. Even if he was allowed to leave his house, I wouldn’t drag him out of bed to make cookies this late at night.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Chat says. He drops the last ball of dough onto the cookie sheet. “This is kind of fun. I bet he wouldn’t mind being woken up for this.”

“Maybe,” Marinette says, even though she doubts that Adrien would enjoy doing manual labor in her kitchen when he could be sleeping. “I’ll stick these in the oven, and then we just have to wait a few minutes.”

As the cookies bake, she and Chat talk about random things: video games, her school’s high akumatization rate, the best cafés in the area. At one point, Chat admits that he’s been to the Dupain-Cheng bakery as a civilian before.

Marinette’s eyes widen, and before she can stop herself, she says, “Have I seen you there?”

“Maybe,” Chat says, with a wink.

Marinette tries not to think too much about _that._

When the cookies are done, Marinette pulls the baking sheet out and sets it down to cool. She’s pretty sure Chat starts drooling a little.

He reaches across the counter for one, and Marinette slaps his wrist. “Not yet!” she says. “They’re too hot.”

Chat wiggles his fingers. “Superhero suit, princesse. It’s heat-resistant.”

“Oh?” Marinette says, folding her arms. “And I suppose your tongue is heat-resistant, too?”

Chat looks unreasonably distressed about that. “So you’re telling me I have to sit here and _look_ at those delicious cookies and _smell_ those delicious cookies, but I can’t _eat_ those delicious cookies?”

Marinette bites back a laugh. “Just wait a few minutes.”

“This is torture,” Chat grumbles.

A few minutes later, when he’s finally allowed to take a bite of a cookie, he groans.

“Oh, Marinette,” he says, chewing. “These are _heavenly._ ”

Marinette smiles proudly. “I know.” As Chat finishes his first cookie and reaches for another, she grabs his arm. “Two more, Chat. Then I’m saving the rest.”

Chat pouts. “Fine.” He takes another cookie and breaks off a piece, contemplating it. “And, uh, well…I also have a request.”

“More cookies?”

Laughing, Chat says, “No. But, ah—I’ve recently decided to brush up on my cooking skills.”

“Okay,” Marinette says. “So what’s the request?”

“Well.” Chat pops the piece of cookie into his mouth. “Cooking is more fun when you do it with someone else, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Marinette smiles and watches as Chat devours the rest of his cookie. “Except when your baking buddy tries to eat all of the food you just made.”

Chat sticks out a chocolate-stained tongue. “I can control myself, princesse.” Suddenly subdued, he presses his lips together, fidgeting with the ring on his finger. “Anyway…could I maybe help you cook this week? Pick up a few tips from expert chef Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”

Marinette squints at him. “You want to help me make dinner?”

“Yes?” Chat says, his green eyes imploring. “My family’s not really big on cooking together. And as hard as it is to believe, my skills in the kitchen are…somewhat lacking. I thought this would be a fun way to get better.”

Marinette considers that. It’s an odd request, for sure. But teaching is one of the best ways to learn—and she could stand to brush up her cooking skills if she’s going to help Adrien with the bet in four days.

Plus…although it’s selfish, she wouldn’t mind spending some time with Chat outside of akuma battles. As much as Marinette pretends to be annoyed by him, she really does think he’s fun to be around.

“Okay,” she says. “You can come by after school lets out. My parents will still be working in the bakery then, so we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’ll tell them what we’re doing. They already know we’re friends, so they won’t think it’s too weird.”

Chat smiles. It’s soft and shy—nothing like the mischievous grins he always flashes her in battle. “Thanks, Marinette. That sounds great.” Yawning, he stretches his arms above his head. “Mm. I think this cat needs some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Marinette nods. “See you soon, Chat.”

On his way to the door, Chat scoops up two cookies from the sheet. “For the road,” he says, with a wink.

It’s not until he’s gone that Marinette realizes the damn cat broke her three-cookie rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: based on my French baking research, cookies (as Americans know them) are not as…ubiquitous in Paris. Some baking ingredients seem to be slightly different, and the traditional French idea of a cookie differs somewhat as well. Of course, some bakers still make American-style cookies—they're just not the most common dessert over there. If I’ve gotten that wrong, I apologize! I always try to be somewhat accurate with French culture, but all I have is 1) Google and 2) vague memories from high school and undergrad French classes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually do translations before a chapter, but so you understand two of the puns:  
> 
> 
>   * **C'est pas tes oignons** \- It's none of your business (literally "it's not your onions")
>   * **Sous ton aile** \- under your wing; **ail** \- garlic
> 

> 
> I know French puns aren't exactly accessible to most readers, and I do apologize for that! If anyone's curious about my decision to use French instead of English, there's an explanation in the endnotes :)

The next morning, Marinette manages to deliver the cookies to Adrien with minimal stuttering.

“Whoa,” Adrien says, holding up the plastic container. “These are all for me?”

Marinette nods. “Are—are there too many?”

Oh, no. What was she thinking, giving that many cookies to a model? Of course Adrien can’t eat that many cookies! He’ll probably throw them out as soon as he gets home. Or maybe he’ll just throw them out in front of Marinette, and the entire class will laugh at her, and then the trash can will fall over and dump her cookies on the ground because _they’re so bad that the trash can doesn’t even want them and—_

“You’re spoiling me,” Adrien says. He peels the lid off and lifts one of the cookies to his mouth, then takes a bite. To Marinette’s surprise, he actually moans. “Marinette, these are fantastic. And they taste fresh. Did you bake them last night?”

“Of course not!” Marinette says. “Wh-why would I bake cookies at midnight for you? I—I mean, you’re worth it! But I didn’t. Because that would be, um…”

“It would be really sweet, if you did.”

Marinette feels her cheeks heat with a blush. “Uh. I…”

“But leftovers are just as good,” Adrien adds. He pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Thanks, Marinette. These are great.”

A smile stretches across Marinette’s face. She searches her mind for a response, but unfortunately, the only answers her brain can come up with are _AHHHHHH_ and _ADRIEN AGRESTE LIKES MY COOKIES._

“Oh!” Adrien says. Wiping crumbs from his face, he holds the container out to Marinette. “Did you get to try any? Or did you save them all for me?”

“I had one or two,” Marinette says. “But I suppose I could have another.”

“Hm,” Adrien says, pulling the container away. “That depends. _Did_ you bake these last night? Because if so, you’re too sweet, and I don’t think you can handle any more sugar.”

It’s the second time in thirty seconds that Adrien has called her sweet, and Marinette’s mind can’t handle it. Between the eight emoticons (eight!) and this, her brain is short-circuiting. “I—cookies—you’re sweet—I mean, they’re sweet—I mean, _I’m_ sweet?”

“Uh,” Adrien says. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No!” Marinette says, because of course, Adrien could never do something wrong. “I just…um…”

“Seems like you didn’t get enough sleep,” Adrien says, smiling. “Does that mean you did stay up to make me cookies?”

There’s something so infuriatingly Chat-like in his voice that Marinette finds herself crossing her arms. “Well,” she says, “if I did, then I certainly wouldn’t be doing it again. Not after all this teasing.”

Adrien’s eyes widen. “Quoi! No, wait, I—I take it back.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re sorry?”

“Have mercy, Marinette!” Adrien says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have teased you. It’s just—if you made me cookies so last-minute, I wanted you to know I appreciate it. But I’m not always good at being straightforward, so…I’m sorry.” Looking very contrite, he holds out the container of cookies and gives it a shake. “Cookie?”

“Well,” Marinette says, plucking a cookie from the container. “If you’re really sorry, maybe you can make _me_ cookies sometime.”

“I’d love to,” Adrien says. He grabs another cookie and takes a tiny bite. “But like I told you last night, my baking skills are nonexistent. I’d probably end up having to apologize to you for how bad my apology-cookies are.”

Marinette giggles. “I can show you how to make them sometime. It’s not too hard.”

“That sounds fun,” Adrien says. He glances over Marinette’s shoulder. “Oh. Looks like Nino wants something.”

“I won’t keep you, then!” Marinette says. “You should go talk to him.”

“Yeah.” Smiling, Adrien touches Marinette’s arm. “Thanks again for the cookies, Marinette. I’m lucky to have you.” His eyes narrow, and he frowns. “Uh, I mean, I’m lucky to have them…made by you?” He grips his chin, then nods to himself and murmurs, “Right, that must be what I meant.”

Adrien waves, and Marinette watches in confusion as he walks away to talk with Nino.

“Tikki,” Marinette whispers, pretending to search through her purse. “Did Adrien just say he’s lucky to have me?”

“He did!” Tikki whispers back.

“He seemed confused, though,” Marinette says. “Like he didn’t mean to say that.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to say it out loud?”

“Maybe,” Marinette agrees. She rarely knows what’s going on inside Adrien’s head.

“Marinette!” Alya says, running up to her. With a squeak, Marinette shuts her purse and stands up straight. “Do my eyes deceive me, or were you flirting with Adrien just now?”

“No, no!” Marinette says. She thinks back over their conversation. “Well. Maybe? I’m not sure.”

“You two were standing pretty close,” Alya says. “And I think he was blushing.”

“Adrien? Blushing?” Marinette says, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”

Alya shrugs. “Maybe not. But he was definitely smiling a lot.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, our favorite pair of puppy dog eyes won’t be smiling come Friday.”

“You’re assuming he doesn’t know how to cook,” Marinette says.

“A good reporter does not _assume._ She infers.” Alya adjusts her glasses. “And based on what Nino has told me, I am making an _inference_ that your beloved Adrien Agreste—as wonderful and amazing as he is—does not know how to cook.”

“Wait,” Marinette says. “What did Nino tell you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alya says. “You’ll find out when you and your master chef cook together on Friday.” She pats Marinette on the shoulder. “Spoiler alert: you might want to have a fire extinguisher on hand.”

“A what?” Marinette says, but Alya’s already walking towards the locker room. “Alya! Why would I need a…”

She glances back at Adrien, who’s innocently munching on another cookie as he talks to Nino. A fire extinguisher? Surely he’s not that bad at cooking. Whatever Nino told Alya, he’s probably exaggerating. He has to be. Even with her own long list of cooking failures, Marinette has almost never had to put out a fire. Alya’s just trying to intimidate her.

As Marinette watches Adrien, he glances up from his conversation with Nino. When their eyes meet, he smiles and gives a little wave, clutching another cookie in his hand.

Oh, hell—with a smile like that, Adrien Agreste could set Marinette’s entire kitchen on fire and she wouldn’t care one bit.

* * *

That evening, Marinette finds herself wondering if Chat’s Miraculous bestows some sort of horrible luck upon him—because really, there’s no other explanation for his complete ineptitude in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry!” Chat says, as he frantically scoops shreds of garlic peel from the skillet. It spits oil as he does, firing burning hot bullets at the two of them. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to peel the garlic first.”

“Chat!” Marinette says, shielding herself with a dish towel. “Have you never seen a garlic clove before?”

“No, I haven’t!” Chat says. “It’s not like I have a garlic tree growing in my bedroom!”

“Garlic doesn’t grow on trees, Chat!”

“Well, we’ve established that my knowledge of garlic is _lacking_ , princesse!”

“Alright,” Marinette says. She takes a deep breath and exhales, then removes the skillet from the burner before the garlic can blacken. “Let’s try something simpler. Can you grab the can opener for me? End of the counter, second drawer down.”

Chat opens the drawer and stares down at the utensils. “Uh.”

“Chat,” Marinette says, struggling to keep calm. “Please tell me you know which one is the can opener.”

Hesitantly, Chat grabs the can opener from the drawer and holds it up. “This?”

“Mon dieu,” Marinette mutters.

Chat’s ears flatten, and he glances between the can opener and the drawer in confusion. “Wait, am I wrong?”

“No!” Marinette says. “But why are you saying that like a question?”

“Because I’m not sure?”

Marinette stares at Chat. “You’ve never seen a garlic clove _or_ a can opener before?”

With adorably wide eyes, Chat blinks at her. “Uh. No?” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I…might have slightly understated my lack of cooking skills.”

“Chat. What dishes can you actually cook?”

Chat squints down at the can opener, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “Leftovers?”

Several seconds pass in silence. Marinette stares at Chat, unable to believe her eyes or ears. How can anyone be _this_ bad at cooking? Forget Alya’s fire extinguisher warnings—however flawed Adrien’s cooking skills are, they can’t possibly be this horrible.

Chat sets the can opener on the counter and sighs. “I’m sorry, Marinette. I thought you wouldn’t want to cook with me if I told you how bad I was.”

“Chat, no,” Marinette says, touching his arm. “I’m happy to cook with you. I’m just a bit surprised, is all.”

Chat sighs. “Like I said, my family’s not big on cooking together. I never had anyone to teach me.”

At those words, Marinette’s heart cracks in two. She has so many fond memories of cooking and baking with her parents as she grew up—she can’t imagine a childhood without those experiences.

“I’ll teach you,” Marinette says.

Chat shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’s probably too much trouble.”

“Absolutely not!” Marinette says. “I like a challenge.” Chat still looks glum, so she adds, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Chat. Plenty of people don’t know how to cook, especially if their parents didn’t teach them growing up. That’s not your fault.”

A shy smile tugs at Chat’s lips. It’s so much smaller than his usual shit-eating grins. “Really?”

“Really,” Marinette says. “So. Let’s try a simple soup recipe.”

To Marinette’s relief, it turns out that Chat is not completely hopeless. After being instructed, he manages to find most of the utensils she asks him for, and when it comes time to peel the carrots, he only injures himself a little.

“Ih’sh bweeding,” Chat says, sucking on his index finger while Marinette dices one of the carrots.

“No, it’s not,” Marinette says. “You’re wearing impenetrable gloves.”

Chat takes his finger out of his mouth to say, “But it _hurts._ ”

“Well, then, you should have scraped away from yourself like I told you to.” Finished with the first carrot, Marinette turns and holds the knife out to Chat. “Your turn.”

He stares at it with wide eyes. “No way. That’s even sharper than the peeler.”

“Chat. Do you want to learn how to cook?”

Grumbling, Chat accepts the knife from her—and even better, he survives cutting the carrots without injuring himself.

The onion, however, has him weeping.

“I should have worn goggles,” Chat says, sniffling as he dices the onion. “No one told me cooking would hurt this much.”

Marinette laughs. “Well, no one said you _had_ to learn how to cook.”

“But I do!” Chat says.

“You…you do? Why?”

Chat looks up at her, cheeks faintly pink. “Um. Well…” He winks, tapping the knife against the cutting board. “C’est pas tes oignons, princesse.”

Once Chat is done crying over the onions, they add the vegetables to a pot with water and salt. Although it _should_ be obvious, Marinette shows Chat each of the stove settings, explaining how they all work. He watches her with rapt attention, nodding along as she speaks.

“Now,” Marinette says, once that’s done, “first, we’re going to bring this to a boil.”

“That’s when the water starts bubbling, right?”

“Right,” Marinette says.

“So…the water has to be _bouillant_ to make _bouillon?”_

Marinette glares at him. “Do you want to make puns, or do you want to learn how to cook?”

Chat squeaks. “Cooking. Sorry. Please continue.”

“Once it’s boiling,” Marinette says, “we’ll reduce it to medium heat. That’s common in a lot of soup recipes.”

“Noted,” Chat says. He’s bouncing on his toes, watching as Marinette sets the burner on high. “So, now we just wait?”

Marinette nods. “Normally, I’d use the time to start preparing some sort of side dish. But let’s keep it simple for today.”

Once the soup has simmered enough, Marinette retrieves a can of coconut milk from the pantry and plunks it down on the counter. “Now we get to use the can opener.”

“I have it right here!” Chat says, holding the can opener upside-down.

“Great,” Marinette says. “Now try holding it the other way.”

Chat frowns at the can opener, then flips it around. “Right. That makes more sense.”

After a brief explanation from Marinette, he manages to use the can opener correctly on the first try. Then comes the immersion blender.

“That’s a _blender?”_ Chat says.

Marinette nods. “Not every kitchen has one, but ours does. They’re handy for making soup.” She plugs it into the wall and holds the blender over the pot. “You can watch, but I’m going to take care of this step. The soup will splatter if you’re not careful.”

“I’m careful,” Chat protests.

“Didn’t you just cut yourself with a vegetable peeler?”

Chat pouts. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette blends the carrots and onions until they resemble soup. As she does, she feels Chat silently watching her every movement. It’s kind of cute, how focused he is. She wishes he would pay this much attention during akuma battles.

“Can you add the coconut milk for me?” she asks.

Eyes lighting up, Chat grabs the can and holds it over the pot. “All of it?” he asks. When Marinette nods, he slowly pours the milk into the soup. “Now what?”

“We just blend it a little more…” Marinette swirls the immersion blender around the pot, combining the coconut milk with the carrot mixture until it’s a golden orange color. “And there! It’s done.”

“It looks great,” Chat says.

“It does,” Marinette agrees.

She fills two bowls and places them on the kitchen table with spoons, then sits down in her usual spot at the table. Chat hops onto the stool across from her and stares at his bowl of soup in awe.

Marinette’s tempted to tease him—but the boy is admiring the first dish he’s ever cooked in his life, so she decides to let him have his moment. Smiling, she gets out her phone and takes a commemorative photo of him and his bowl.

Stirring the soup, Chat says, “That was easier than I thought.”

“And now comes the easiest part,” Marinette says, picking up her spoon. “Eating it.”

Chat nods and shoves a spoonful into his mouth. Then he grunts in pain and spits it back into the bowl. “Hot,” he says weakly.

Marinette snorts. Alright—so apparently that’s _not_ the easiest part.

“So,” she says, dragging her spoon through the soup. “If you don’t mind me asking…why did you ask _me_ to teach you to cook?”

Chat doesn’t respond right away. “Well,” he finally says. “Believe it or not, it’s easier for Chat Noir to sneak out and see you than it is for civilian-me to go see his friends. That, and…” He takes a tiny sip of soup from his spoon and hums. “Oh, this is really good.”

“And?” Marinette prompts.

“Right. I—I guess I didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking any of my friends who know me as a civilian. They already make fun of me for lacking other life skills, and sometimes the jokes are funny, but…” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I can’t help how I grew up. It’s just…I don’t know. I guess it hurts, a little. I know my friends don’t mean any harm, but…”

With a shrug, he takes another sip of soup. His sentence hangs unfinished in the air.

“That’s not right, Chat,” Marinette says. “They shouldn’t make fun of you for something that you can’t control.”

“I’ve never told them that it bothers me,” Chat says. “So it’s my fault, really.” He flashes Marinette a smile. “It’s fine. At least they won’t be able to make fun of me for my cooking, right?”

“Not if I can help it,” Marinette says.

One way or another, she’s going to teach this cat how to cook.

* * *

The next day at school, Marinette stops by her friends’ lunch table to let them know she’s having lunch at home. After making the carrot soup, Chat had begged Marinette to teach him more about cooking over their lunch hour—and while she’d been slightly concerned by his sense of urgency, she didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

“Oh, you too?” Nino says, when Marinette tells them that she’s going home. He points to Adrien, who’s standing next to Marinette. “Apparently this guy doesn’t want to eat with us, either.”

“It’s not that,” Adrien says, rolling his eyes. “You know my père doesn’t like me to eat in the cafeteria when I could be spending my time _more productively.”_

Nino mutters something about productivity and Gabriel Agreste’s ass.

“Well,” Alya says, “you two have fun. Nino and I will just be brainstorming recipes for this Friday.”

Adrien visibly tenses. “Uh...sounds fun.” 

Alya smirks. “And since Adrien’s a self-proclaimed expert in the kitchen—”

“I never said I was an expert,” Adrien says. “Just that I know how to cook.”

“Alya,” Nino says. “We agreed to go easy on him.”

“I don’t see a reason to, if he’s really as good as he says he is,” Alya says.

Normally, Marinette admires that investigative gleam in Alya’s eye—it’s the look she wears when she’s about to get the truth out of someone, no matter how difficult. Right now, though, it’s trained on Adrien, and that’s no good. Whether he’s bad at cooking or just lacks confidence about his skills, he doesn’t deserve to be interrogated.

“Let’s not forget the whole point of this!” Marinette says. “The idea was to cook dinner for each other and have fun. We don’t need to make it so vicious.”

“Fine, fine,” Alya says. “But I’m not going _too_ easy on you, Agreste. This is a bet, after all.”

“Right,” Adrien says. “Can’t wait.”

He and Marinette wave goodbye and walk together to the entrance of the school. As they do, he’s unusually silent.

“Um, you know,” Marinette says, remembering what Chat told her about his friends. “I’m not suggesting that you don’t know how to cook—but even if you didn’t, Alya’s wrong to make fun of that.”

Adrien’s brow furrows. “I mean, she’s got a point. Don’t most people know how to cook?”

“No!” Marinette says. “Plenty of people don’t. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She dares to touch Adrien’s arm. “Cooking might not be difficult, but it’s a skill like anything else. It’s not always intuitive—it’s something you have to learn.”

“But most people our age have learned how to cook,” Adrien says.

“Not all,” Marinette says. “Actually, I have a friend our age who’s just now learning. He started with pretty much no idea what he was doing, but he’s picking things up pretty quickly.”

“Are you teaching him?” Adrien asks.

“Yes, actually,” Marinette says, as she and Adrien exit the school and start down the stairs. “Actually, I’m meeting him in a few minutes for a miniature lesson.”

“That’s really nice of you, Marinette.” Adrien smiles down at her, and it makes her heart skip a beat. “I’m sure he appreciates that.”

“Oh, he—uh—he does,” Marinette says. Unbidden, memories of the previous evening fill her mind: of Chat’s innocent wide eyes whenever she explained something to him, of his soft smile as he thanked her on his way out the door. “He’s really sweet.”

“Are you still going to be my cooking partner on Friday?” Adrien asks, his teeth peeking out in a rare grin. “Or am I being replaced?”

“Y-you—replaced!” Marinette says. “N-no, never, I would never fall for—I mean! I would never leave you to fend for yourself.” She smiles awkwardly. “Is there some sort of rule saying a girl can’t help out two boys at the same time?”

There’s a moment of silence. Marinette fidgets, watching as Adrien’s face turns bright red. At first, she wonders why he’s blushing. Then she realizes what she just said.

“Th-that—no!” Adrien says shrilly. “There’s no rule! You can help as many boys as you like!”

He slaps his hand over his mouth and makes a dying noise. Marinette can relate.

“That’s not what I meant!” she squeaks. “I—I just meant—with cooking!” 

“That is…exactly what I meant,” Adrien says, voice muffled by his hand. “Cooking.”

Then they’re silent again, both madly blushing as they wait for the other to say something.

“Well,” Marinette says, “I’ll be going now. Enjoy your lunch!”

With that, she scampers down the sidewalk toward her house, face burning with embarrassment. She can’t believe she said that—and to Adrien’s face! How could her tongue even manage that sort of slip? Especially when she was talking about Chat. Her brain shouldn’t have those kinds of thoughts about Chat when Adrien is clearly the only boy for her.

As she sprints into the bakery, though, Marinette doesn’t know which boy is the reason she’s blushing.

* * *

By Thursday evening, Chat has acquired a decent range of cooking skills—in just a few sessions, Marinette’s taught him how to make soup, pasta, quiche, chicken, and salad. On Wednesday, Chat had even helped her make a soufflé, which he described as _the most nerve-racking experience of my life, Marinette, worse than an akuma, I've never been so afraid that I would screw something up, and no, I'm not crying, you're seeing things, it's just the onions._

(He definitely wept tears of relief when the soufflé worked out. Marinette found that strangely endearing, even as she dove for a box of tissues.)

She’s almost intimidated by how focused Chat is. While she knew that he was quick on his feet, she’d never realized that he was such a fast learner. It’s almost as if Chat has some sort of deadline, like a metaphorical gun to his head…but that’s absurd. It’s not as if something terrible will happen to him if he doesn’t learn how to cook by the end of the week. He’s just dedicated.

And yet, despite Chat’s studiousness, teaching him how to cook doesn’t feel like work. Marinette honestly can’t remember the last time she had so much fun in the kitchen. She finds herself laughing at all of his stupid food puns, making silly rhymes to help him remember things, smiling whenever he completes a task and looks to her for approval. The kitchen has become a safe little world for the two of them, where they can laugh and joke and forget their worries for a bit.

Marinette also learns that, although Chat is still a flirtatious goofball, there’s something sweet and shy underneath that demeanor of his. Before, his personality had seemed larger-than-life, almost cartoonish. Now, though, he feels more authentic. Domestic, even. Marinette has no trouble imagining what other tasks might be like, with Chat’s help. He’d probably treat sorting laundry like a tedious experiment, asking Marinette for irrelevant specifics about fabrics and colors. And cleaning the house, he’d make that into a game, probably turn his mop into a dance partner and waltz around the room. 

She can see _that_ all too clearly in her mind: Chat twirling the handle, making up a song about mops and buckets that somehow ends up being vaguely suggestive. He’d glance at Marinette as he finishes the floor and ask her to be his dance partner instead, and she’d roll her eyes and take his hand. Then they’d take two steps and slip on the wet floor, fall to the ground tangled together—and he’d hover over her, his smile soft, cheeks faintly pink, and he’d cup her cheek as he leaned in and—

“No!” Marinette exclaims, covering her mouth. She can’t believe her brain is capable of conjuring up that sort of fantasy. It’s bad enough that she’s imagining being domestic with Chat, but _kissing_ him? Where did that come from?

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about salmon skin, princesse.”

As if waking from a dream, Marinette realizes that she’s not lying on the floor about to kiss Chat; she’s standing in the kitchen with him, about to make Thursday’s dinner. Chat leans against the counter, a knife in his hand and a perplexed frown on his face. He probably thinks Marinette’s lost her mind.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was thinking about something else.”

Chat raises an eyebrow. “So, skin or no skin?”

“Leave it on,” Marinette says. “It will be easier to flip with the skin.”

“Noted.” Chat turns to the cutting board, selects a different knife, and starts slicing the ends off shallots instead. “Is something bothering you? You seemed distressed just now.”

“It’s nothing!” Marinette says. “Just, uh—I guess I’m a little nervous about some things.”

“Things?” Chat asks, as he peels the shallots. Marinette’s amazed by how comfortable he’s become in the kitchen in just a few days. What ever happened to the boy who threw unpeeled garlic cloves into the skillet?

Marinette searches her mind for a plausible excuse. “Well…see, a few of my friends made a bet, and I guess I’m worried about how it’s going to go.”

Chat pauses, knife poised above the cutting board. “A bet?”

“It’s not important,” Marinette says. “One of my friends thinks our other friend can’t cook, so she challenged him to cook dinner for the four of us tomorrow night.”

“And you don’t think he can do it?” Chat asks. His ears droop slightly, and his tail drags along the ground, limp and lifeless.

For a moment, his shift in demeanor confuses Marinette. Then it all makes sense. Of course Chat would be sensitive about that topic—hadn’t he mentioned that his friends made fun of him for the same thing? He’s probably worried that Marinette is the same sort of bully.

“No! I trust him,” Marinette says. “And I think it’s wrong of my friend to challenge him. Even if he couldn’t cook, that’s not something she should make fun of.”

She watches as the tip of Chat’s tail lifts off the ground. “So why are you nervous?”

“I’m afraid I’ll mess up,” Marinette says. “I’m really clumsy, and if I make a mistake in the kitchen, I might make him lose the bet.”

“Oh.” Chat starts dicing the shallots, and Marinette can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to avoid looking at her. Usually he pauses what he’s doing when they’re talking about something important. “But why does that matter? Even if you make a few mistakes, he’ll still prove that he can cook.”

“Yes, but—but if he loses the bet, he’ll have to go to a stupid concert with her little sisters, and then he’ll be embarrassed, and he’ll hate me, and he’ll never want to speak to me again, and I’ll die old and alone and—”

“Wait, what?” Chat says. He looks up at Marinette quizzically. “He’ll _hate_ you?”

“Chat,” Marinette says, lowering her voice. Maybe it will make him take her more seriously. “He _hates_ Monsieur Banane. I don’t know what it is, but the look in his eyes when you mention the banana—it must be something horrible, and—and—why are you laughing?”

Chat’s shoulders shake as he guffaws over the shallots. “He—you—I’m sorry.” He sets the knife down, clutching his abdomen. “M-Marinette. You think your friend is going to hate you because of a person in a banana suit?”

“He hates Monsieur Banane, Chat!” Marinette says. “This is serious!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Chat says, wiping a tear from his eye. “I hate him, too. I want to Cataclysm his dumb suit every time I see it.”

Marinette crosses her arms. “So you understand why he’ll hate me!”

Chat shakes his head. “No, Marinette.” He smiles and reaches out, his claws lightly brushing her arm. “You’re helping him and supporting him while his other friends doubt him. He wouldn’t hate you for that.” He sighs. “I admit, the idea of going to a Salade de Fruits concert makes my skin crawl…but if he’s anything like me, Marinette, your friendship is more important to him than that.”

Marinette falters. “It is?”

“It is,” Chat says. “That said, if I screw up this salmon, _please_ do not make me go to one of those godforsaken concerts.”

Laughing, Marinette shakes her head. “I would never. I hate that stupid banana suit, too. Although…” She taps her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “I did hear tell that a certain black cat was spotted wearing that banana suit one night…”

“Quoi!”

Marinette raises her eyebrows innocently. “Sources say Ladybug was dressed as a kickass biker, and you…” She takes a step closer and pokes his chest. “You were a banana.”

Chat’s mouth opens and closes several times without making a sound. “Marinette,” he hisses. “We _do not speak_ of the Bananoir incident.”

“Why not?” Marinette says. “Yellow’s definitely your color.”

“It is most definitely not,” Chat says. “I am a warm spring, and as such, I look wretched in neon yellow. It clashes with my gorgeous blond locks.”

“Well, you can’t see those _gorgeous locks_ in a banana suit,” Marinette says, “so your point is moot.”

“And what a crime that is, hm?” Chat says, leaning in close. “Hiding my good looks behind a banana?”

Marinette blinks rapidly. Said good looks are far too close for comfort: her field of vision is filled with sparkling green eyes, slightly flushed cheeks, and soft pink lips. Her tongue stops working.

A smirk tugs at Chat’s lips. “Ah, it seems you agree. You know…” He places a finger under Marinette’s chin and tilts it upward, so that her eyes are locked on his. “There are a lot of things I can’t do in that banana suit. I can’t eat, or drink...and when I see a pretty girl, do you know what I can’t do?”

“Um.” Marinette swallows. “Y-you…” 

Chat leans closer still, and Marinette finds herself frozen, eyes fluttering shut as Chat’s lips move toward hers.

Then something wet swipes up her cheek, and Chat pulls away with a snort.

“Y-you—you!” Marinette says, jabbing a finger against his chest. “Did you just _lick me?”_

“Moi?” Chat asks. He holds a hand to his chest. “Impossible. When has a cat ever licked someone?”

Marinette shoves him. She can feel her cheeks burning with a blush. “I—I thought you were—stupid cat!”

“That’s right,” Chat says. “I’m a cat. Not a banana.” He pokes Marinette’s cheek, sticking his tongue out. “And don’t you forget it.”

“No dessert for you,” Marinette declares.

That quickly wipes the smug smile off Chat’s face. “What? Marinette, no! I love dessert!”

“You should have thought about that before you licked me.”

“Marinette,” Chat whines. “I’m sorry! Did you want a kiss? I can give you a kiss.” He puckers his lips and dives towards her face, making a loud smooching sound.

Marinette shrieks and laughs, batting him away. “No, you stupid cat! I—don’t you dare—”

She whirls around to face the counter and brings her hands up to her face to cover it. Laughing, Chat reaches around her from behind and lightly wraps his hands around her wrists, halfheartedly tugging at them. Marinette can tell he’s not really trying—if he wanted to, he could probably pull her hands away from her face.

“Princesse,” Chat says, his breath tickling her ear. “I’ll make it up to you! Let me give you a kiss.”

“Nope,” Marinette says from behind her hands. “Not happening.”

“Hm,” Chat says. “That means I’ll need to change tactics.” His hands release Marinette’s wrists and slowly trail down to her waist, making her shiver. “Tell me, princesse. Are you…ticklish?”

Yelping, Marinette reaches down and grabs his hands before he can even _try_ to tickle her. The moment she does, though, Chat presses a haphazard kiss to her jaw, just below her ear.

“There,” he says. “You got your kiss.”

“I never said I wanted a kiss,” Marinette grumbles, blushing.

“Oh?" Chat says. He rests his chin on Marinette’s shoulder, his arms still circling her waist from behind. “Then why were you so disappointed when I licked you?”

Marinette huffs. “Because,” she says, “I expected someone your age to be more mature.”

Chat’s chest shakes against her back with laughter. “You expected a fifteen-year-old boy in a cat suit to be more mature?”

As much as Marinette hates to admit it, her logic might be a bit faulty. “You know what I’d prefer to a kiss, Chat?”

Chat hums. “What’s that?”

Marinette lets go of his wrists and turns around. “For you to—uh.”

Chat is standing much closer than she anticipated, his lips curled in an amused smile. “Yes?”

Clearing her throat, Marinette says, “For you to help me cook like you said you would.”

“Ah, yes, good idea,” Chat says. “Although, might I recommend a different seafood dish?”

Marinette squints at him. “And what would that be?”

Chat smirks. “Bouilla- _baiser_.”

For a long moment, Marinette stares at him, unable to believe that he would make a pun like that when he’s already on such thin ice. But no, apparently this stupid cat fears no god.

Marinette grabs a dish towel and snaps it toward him. “One more pun or kissing joke, and you’re on your own if you want to learn how to cook fish.”

Chat squeaks. “Right! Of course. No more puns. Or kissing. Or puns about kissing. I’ll just…finish the shallots now.”

Some time later, they dish the salmon onto their plates and sit at the table together. As Marinette takes the first savory bite, she can’t help but wonder if Chat will keep visiting for cooking lessons now that the week is over. She’ll kind of miss having him in the kitchen.

“Hey, princesse,” Chat says. He’s holding up a garlic clove he nabbed from the kitchen counter. “Thank you for the help. I appreciate you taking me sous ton _ail.”_

Marinette holds back a laugh and does her best to scowl. “Oh, so now that you have nothing to lose, we’re back to the puns?”

“Don’t worry,” Chat says. “It’s just puns. I won’t try to kiss you again.”

“Good.” Marinette shoves a piece of salmon into her mouth and chews, trying to focus on the flavor rather than the thought of Chat kissing her. “By the way—my parents asked me if we’d be willing to make them dinner next week. Papa wants to make sure you really know your way around the kitchen.”

Chat laughs. “Is he still trying to play matchmaker?”

“Probably.” Marinette shakes her head and adopts her best impression of her father’s booming voice. _“A superhero AND a boy who can cook, Marinette! Where will you find another one of those?”_

“You know, he’s not wrong,” Chat says. “There are only a couple of superhero boys in Paris.” He winks. “And none of them pun as well as me.”

Marinette snorts. “I’ll take a boy who can’t cook over a boy who accosts me with food puns.”

With an indignant gasp, Chat says, “Excuse you! That garlic pun was excellent. You just have bad _taste.”_

“Ugh.” Marinette rolls her eyes and takes another bite of salmon. “I can’t believe I’ll miss having you in the kitchen.”

Chat’s offended expression slips off his face, replaced by wide eyes and perked ears. “You’ll miss having me in the kitchen?”

“I mean, yes?” Marinette says. “You said it yourself a few nights ago, Chat. Cooking is more fun when you have someone to cook with.”

Chat smiles. “That’s true. And you know…I suppose I could keep visiting to cook. Not as often, but maybe once a week or so? There’s still a lot I haven’t learned, and I’ve got a few food puns I haven’t gotten to use yet.”

“I take it back,” Marinette says flatly. “I won’t miss you.”

“Marinette!” Chat says. He pouts and stares at her with wide kitten eyes. “You don’t mean that!”

“No, I don’t,” Marinette says with a smile. “I’d like that, Chat. The cooking-once-a-week thing, I mean. Not the puns.”

“You like the puns,” Chat says, going back to his salmon. “Just admit it.”

“Never.”

Chat glances up from his plate, eyes glimmering. “What about the kiss?”

“Chat!”

“I’m not hearing a _no,_ ” Chat sings.

Marinette doesn’t want to answer that question honestly, so she just laughs and takes another bite of salmon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the French puns: I did some French translation work during my undergraduate studies, so whenever I write a Miraculous fic, I always feel like I'm "translating" French dialogue to English. That means that sometimes, where there might be an opportunity for a pun in English, there isn't actually a pun in French. And I mean, I _could_ just pun in English and say there's an equivalent pun in French...but I feel compelled to make French puns. I swear, though, I'm not trying to be clever. I'm just haunted by my undergrad years. (Aren't we all?)
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  Quoi! – What!  
> C'est pas tes oignons - It's none of your business (literally "it's not your onions")  
> Bouillant – boiling; bouillon – broth  
> bouillabaisse – fish stew; un baiser – a kiss (but usually you'll see "bisou" instead - "baiser" also means "to screw," so Chat is walking a pretty fine line here, and Marinette is being generous)  
> sous ton aile – under your wing; ail – garlic  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

When Marinette walks into class on Friday morning, she finds Adrien sitting at his desk, poring over five recipe cards. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and Nino and Alya stand stoically to either side of him, watching him make his selection.

“Good morning, everyone!” Marinette says, hoping to defuse the tension.

Alya and Nino nod in greeting, and Adrien glances up, his teeth peeking out in a smile. “Salut, Marinette.” He looks down at one of the cards and snorts. “Bouillabaisse.”

“What’s so funny about bouillabaisse?” Alya asks.

Adrien shakes his head, smiling to himself. “Nothing.” He picks up one of the recipe cards and reads it. “Seriously, Alya?”

“What?” she says innocently. Her eyes glint mischievously behind her glasses.

Adrien tosses the recipe card over his shoulder. “I’m not stupid enough to attempt _Beef Bourguignon Super Facile_.”

“It’s not that hard,” Alya says. “It even says _super easy_ in the title.”

Adrien glances at her, an eyebrow raised. “With all these steps? No way. There are too many opportunities for something to go wrong.”

“Can I see the recipes?” Marinette asks.

“Non!” Alya says, holding up a hand to stop Marinette. “No helping. Adrien has to pick.”

Adrien spends another minute scrutinizing the cards, then picks one up and hands it to Alya. “This one.”

Alya reads the card and sighs. “Poulet coco réunionnais?”

“What’s wrong with that one?” Marinette asks.

“Nothing,” Alya says. “But Agreste, are you sure you don’t want to try something more ambitious? I might sweeten the deal if you attempt that beef bourguignon…”

Adrien laughs and pushes the remaining recipe cards across the desk toward Alya. “No, thanks. I’m making the coconut chicken.”

Marinette wanders over to Alya and glances over her shoulder to read the recipe. To her relief, Adrien’s picked a recipe with few ingredients and even fewer steps. As long as he knows some cooking basics, they should be fine.

“Alright,” Alya says, pocketing the card. “Just remember: victory isn’t guaranteed until the food’s on the table.”

“Noted,” Adrien says. He leans back in his seat, though his posture is a little too stiff to be relaxed. “But we’ve got this, right, Marinette?”

Marinette smiles. “I think so!” She folds her arms and smirks at Alya. “It’s too bad your sisters won’t get to go to that Salade de Fruits concert.”

“Hm,” Alya says. She exchanges a look with Nino. “We’ll see.” With that, she climbs up to her seat at the desk behind Adrien, and Nino wanders after her to chat.

Marinette lingers by Adrien’s desk. Tikki nudges her through her purse, as if to say, _Say something reassuring!_

“So, uh,” Marinette says. “Y-you picked a good recipe!”

Adrien exhales heavily. “That’s a relief.” He leans forward and adds, “I thought it looked the easiest, but I was worried it was a trap.”

Marinette laughs. “The trap was the _Beef Bourguignon Super Facile._ Although it wasn’t a very good one.”

“Yeah,” Adrien says, forehead wrinkling. “Did she really think I’d fall for that?”

“Oh, well.” Marinette shrugs. “Probably not? It seemed more like a joke.”

It wasn’t a very nice joke, though. Can’t Alya tell that Adrien is stressed about this cooking bet? She should stop teasing him.

“Maybe,” Adrien murmurs. His eyes fall to the ground. “Do you, um…”

“Yes?”

Adrien glances up at Marinette with wide green eyes. His expression steals her breath away. “Do you think I can do it?”

“You mean…cook the chicken?” Marinette says. “Bien sûr! I’m sure you can.” She laughs nervously. “I’m the one we should be worried about. I’m a total klutz. I’ll probably end up setting the chicken on fire or something.”

Adrien laughs. “I don’t think I saw _flambé_ anywhere in the instructions.”

Mentally, Marinette cheers. Adrien knows a cooking term! Surely that means he’ll be fine. “Are you sure you want my help?” she asks. “I don’t want to screw things up for you.”

“Marinette!” Adrien exclaims. “Of course I want to cook with you. Even if you set the chicken on fire.”

Stupidly, Marinette’s heart thumps loudly in her chest. _Even if you set the chicken on fire._ The sweetest words she’s ever heard, and the closest to a love confession from Adrien Agreste that she’ll ever get. He wants to cook with her, even if she turns the chicken to ash! Isn’t that sort of romantic?

Maybe it’s a metaphor—but what’s the chicken supposed to represent? What if the chicken is their love? Then Marinette’s going to burn it to a crisp, and she’ll ruin her chances with Adrien, and he’ll tell all of their friends that she torched their love chicken, and then he’ll leave her forever, and all she’ll have to remember him by is a charred chicken bone and—

“Uh, Marinette?” Adrien says. “Are you alright?”

Marinette yelps, snapping out of her nightmare. “I’m fine!” she says. “I’m just…trying not to imagine my kitchen on fire.”

“Oh. Right.” Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “That probably won’t happen.”

“Probably?”

“Unless something goes horribly wrong with the side salad.”

Marinette laughs, relieved. If Adrien’s able to make this many jokes about cooking, then there’s probably nothing to worry about. At the same time, she’s haunted by Alya’s words from earlier that week: _Based on what Nino has told me, your beloved Adrien Agreste does not know how to cook._

What does Nino _know?_ What skeletons does Adrien have in his kitchen pantry?

“Marinette,” Adrien says, bringing her back to reality once again. “Don’t worry. I won’t set the salad on fire.”

“You won’t?” Marinette says. Then she realizes what he said. “I mean, you won’t! Of course not. That’s…impossible…”

But her brain is filled with a new image: of Adrien clutching a flaming head of lettuce, screaming and running around her kitchen as the leafy greens burn. _Why did you set my lettuce on fire, Marinette?_ he cries out, as the lettuce inferno consumes him. _Why did you do this to our salad of love?_

“Marinette,” Adrien says a third time, grabbing her arm. “Are you sure you’re fine? Do I need to take you to the nurse?”

“You can take me to your room anytime,” Marinette says, then gasps. “I mean—to the nurse! But not right now, because I’m fine. My lettuce isn’t on fire!”

Adrien squints. “Is that some sort of code?”

“Oui,” Marinette says, drawing out the vowel. “It’s…uh…it means that…we are not going to set the salad on fire.”

Laughing, Adrien says, “Is _that_ a secret code, too?”

Marinette sighs, her entire body drooping over. “No. I’m just a mess.”

“Hey,” Adrien says. His fingers brush lightly against Marinette’s arm, sending tingles across her skin. “You’re not a mess, Marinette. And I’m glad you’re my cooking partner.”

Heat creeps across Marinette’s face. “Oh. M-me too. I’m glad we’ll sleep together—ack! No! I’m glad we’ll cook together. Cooking. I don’t want to sleep with you. I mean, not in the kitchen—I mean…”

Adrien stares at her for a few seconds, and then he bursts into laughter, cheeks flushing pink. “I don’t think we should do that in your kitchen with Alya and Nino there.”

“Right!” Marinette says. “Definitely not…when they’re there…”

Wait.

“Or at all!” Adrien adds. “It wouldn’t be sanitary for the food. You know, _don’t shit where you eat,_ except…don’t have sex where you eat, instead…”

At last, the conversation seems to catch up to Adrien. He clamps his mouth shut, entire face bright red.

“Right!” Marinette says again, far too brightly. “So we’re agreed! No sex in the kitchen!”

“Exactly!” Adrien says. “Just cooking.”

“And no sex.”

“Yes! I mean, no. I mean—”

“Great!” Marinette claps her hands together, her face so hot that she could fry an egg on it. “I’m going to sit down now.”

“Me too,” Adrien says. “Except I’m already sitting, so I will just continue to sit.”

With a nod, Marinette marches up to her chair and stiffly sits down. There’s no way she’s going to survive cooking with Adrien. Her kitchen isn’t that big, so they’ll be close to each other the entire time—and she’ll be right next to that golden hair, those gleaming eyes, that sweet mouth…

That _cursed_ mouth, which basically said that Adrien might sleep with Marinette under certain circumstances. But that was a slip! Obviously he hadn’t meant to say that. Even so, now her mind is wandering to places it certainly should not go: images of Adrien pressing her back against the kitchen counter, murmuring a compliment, kissing the spot just below her ear—

_Stop! No! Think of someone else in his place!_

Naturally, Marinette’s mind substitutes a different pair of green eyes, a cheekier grin—and oh, _no,_ her brain still doesn’t want to stop the fantasy. What’s wrong with her? It’s absurd. She doesn’t like Chat Noir that way. The stress of this bet must be getting to her.

“Girl,” Alya says. “What did I miss? Your face is bright red.”

“Bouilla-baiser,” Marinette mumbles, burying her face in her arms.

Her lettuce is definitely on fire.

* * *

After school, Marinette stands with Alya and Nino on the front steps and waits for Adrien to emerge. While Alya and Nino are buying groceries, Adrien will be walking with Marinette to her apartment to set up the kitchen.

“Hey, Nino,” Alya says, nudging him with her elbow. “Someone’s a little overconfident, wouldn’t you say?”

Nino laughs awkwardly. “Marinette’s always confident, though. That’s not weird.”

“What?” Marinette says. “Why am I overconfident?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alya says. She taps her chin as if in thought. “What could _possibly_ go wrong with Adrien in the kitchen?”

“I might get flustered and spill something?” Marinette says.

Alya and Nino exchange a look. “Marinette,” Alya says. “Do you really not know?”

“Not know what?”

“Just tell her, Alya,” Nino says. “It’s not nice to freak her out.”

“You start,” Alya says. “He’s _your_ best friend.”

Sighing, Nino adjusts his cap. “Okay,” he says. “Adrien thinks that garlic is already minced when it’s harvested.”

It takes Marinette’s mind a few moments to work out what Nino has said. “That’s—is that a joke?”

Nino grimaces. “He thinks it’s like seeds.”

“Maybe he was kidding?”

“He once asked me what kind of knife people use to open cans.”

“Nino,” Marinette whispers. “No.”

“And,” Alya says, “he thought that corn on the cob and corn kernels were two different plants.”

“That’s impossible!” Marinette shouts.

Several students walking past stop and stare at Marinette with alarmed expressions. People on the sidewalk pause and glance around for the source of commotion, and even the pigeons on the roof cock their heads and look at Marinette like she’s crazy.

“Alya,” Marinette says, lowering her voice, “he must have been joking.”

“He wasn’t,” Nino says. He winces. “I felt so bad, man. I had to answer the questions like they were totally normal. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were…well…”

“Marinette,” Alya says, “I know you believe in your ray of sunshine, and of course that’s totally sweet—but prepare yourself for the worst.”

Marinette glances back and forth between them. “I…I…”

She wants to say it’s impossible. Adrien had seemed so confident when he avoided the beef bourguignon trap! And yet, his nervousness reminds her too much of Chat. She knows, deep in her heart, that the love of her life has probably never set foot in a kitchen.

“Is it only those three things?” Marinette says, with a tight smile. “That’s not so bad!”

“Oh, no,” Alya says. “There’s more. Nino, tell her about the chicken broth question.”

“Please, no,” Marinette says. “I don’t want to know.”

Before Nino can tell her anyway, Adrien emerges from the school with his bag slung over his shoulder. “So,” he says. “Are we all ready to…Marinette? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Marinette tries to school her expression into something slightly less horrified. “Nothing!” she says. “It’s nothing. I’m ready to cook some corn cobs!”

Adrien tilts his head to the side. “Corn cobs?”

“I mean, chicken!” Marinette says. “I’m ready to make some chicken.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Alya says, grabbing Nino’s arm and dragging him down the steps. “Bonne chance, you two!”

Once they’re alone, Adrien fidgets with the strap of his bag. “Are you sure you’re alright, Marinette?” he says. “Is it what I said earlier? If so, I’m really sorry. I was so nervous about cooking that my words got all jumbled. I didn’t mean to say anything…untoward.”

“No, no!” Marinette says. She waves her hands frantically. “You’re beau—bien!” She squeaks and flails more violently. “You’re fine! You’re also handsome, of course, but that’s not what I meant to say.”

“Oh.” Adrien blinks a few times, his cheeks stained pink. Smiling bashfully, he ducks his head. “Thanks, Marinette. But I don’t think good looks will help us with cooking.” His eyes flick up at her. “Though, if they did, I’d be pretty confident having you as my partner.”

“That’s—um…” Marinette’s brain spins as it tries to piece together Adrien’s implication. Did he just say she’s good-looking? She’s pretty sure he just said she’s good-looking. “W-well, you can still be confident in me! I won’t let you down.” She tentatively rests a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s show Alya how wrong she is.”

“Right!” Adrien says. He makes a sweeping gesture toward her house. “Lead the way, Marinette.”

And so she does—if only because, with Adrien walking behind her, she doesn’t have to look at his stupidly irresistible face.

* * *

“Alright,” Marinette says, setting her purse on the couch. “Let’s get everything set up, I guess.”

“Good idea,” Adrien says. He pulls up his phone and glances at the screen. “So…”

“Right.” Marinette knows she has to take charge. “We’ll need—”

“Can opener, cutting board, tongs, spatula, small spoon, one or two knives?”

For a moment, Marinette can only stare at him in shock. “Yes?”

Adrien tilts his head to the side. “Did I forget something?”

“No,” Marinette says. “You’re right! That’s everything we’ll need. And I’ll get out the spices, too. We already have those here.”

She walks to the kitchen, and Adrien follows. As she plucks spice containers from the cupboard, she says, “The can opener is in the drawer on the—”

“Found it,” Adrien says, placing the can opener on the counter.

Marinette blinks. “You did!”

“Yes?” Adrien says. He laughs. “Is that surprising?”

“No, no!” Marinette says. “Not at all.”

There’s no way that Adrien is as hopeless as Alya and Nino made him sound. At first, Chat Noir hadn’t even known what a can opener looked like! Adrien’s already several steps ahead of him. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Oh,” Adrien says, glancing at his phone again. “I guess we don’t need the can opener after all.”

“We don’t?” Marinette asks. She’s pretty sure the recipe calls for coconut milk. What is Adrien talking about?

With a frown, Adrien opens a few drawers and peers into them. “Do you have something we can squeeze the coconuts with?”

“Wait. What?”

“You know, to get the milk out?” Adrien says. He mimes squeezing something. “It’s like juicing a fruit, right?”

A record scratches in Marinette’s mind. She stares at Adrien, frozen in horror. _Oh, no._ She was too quick to be complacent. The can opener must have been beginner’s luck. Nino and Alya were right: those are the words of a boy who thinks garlic comes pre-minced.

Adrien stares at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. After another moment of silence, though, he bursts out laughing. “Oh, Marinette.”

“Why are you laughing?”

Adrien’s hand lands on her shoulder as he doubles over with laughter. “I—that was a joke!” he says. “I know that’s not how you make coconut milk. And I know it comes in cans.” He glances up at her from underneath messy bangs—messy bangs that, strangely, remind her of Chat Noir. “Marinette. You don’t think I’m _that_ bad, do you?”

Marinette breathes a sigh of relief. “I didn’t _think_ you were,” she says, “but your acting skills are pretty good. You had me second-guessing my trust in you.”

Adrien laughs. “You looked horrified.”

“Of course I did!” Marinette says. She’s dimly aware of the fact that Adrien’s hand is still resting on her shoulder. “I—I was imagining you trying to…with a coconut…”

“Well, obviously my hands aren’t strong enough to milk a coconut,” Adrien says. “You just throw the whole thing in a blender, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Marinette says, stifling a laugh. “But you have to get a special coconut blender to do it.”

“A _special blender?”_ Adrien says. He leans closer. “That must be expensive.”

Marinette nods solemnly. “It is. Seven hundred euros. Very high-end, and huge. It takes up a lot of counter space. You have to fit a coconut, after all.”

“Hm,” Adrien says. “Seven hundred? That’s a lot. Is it a single-use appliance? Or does it blend other things?”

“For seven hundred euros? Of course it does!” Marinette says. “It has three settings: coconut, cantaloupe, and basketball.”

Adrien howls with laughter at that. It’s the loudest Marinette’s ever seen him laugh before—nothing like the quiet chuckles or shy laughs she’s used to. He grabs his abdomen and leans his body against her, gasping for breath.

His laugh is contagious, and within seconds, Marinette finds herself laughing as well. They must laugh for minutes; every time their laughter starts to wane, they meet each other’s eyes and burst into giggles all over again.

“Does the—does the blender handle other sports balls?” Adrien asks, tears leaking from his eyes. “What about volleyballs?”

“Th-that would probably work,” Marinette says. “Just don’t try hockey pucks. That’s how we broke our first…our first…”

She dissolves into another round of giggles before she can finish her sentence. Adrien ducks his head, shaking with another laugh.

“Looks like you two are having fun,” a voice says.

Marinette glances up to see Alya and Nino standing by the kitchen counter, each holding a bag of groceries. “Alya! Nino! We were just, uh…”

Adrien clears his throat. “Marinette was telling me about her basketball blender.”

Alya looks back and forth between them. “Wait, her—”

“Coconut blender,” Marinette corrects. She wags a finger at him. “It’s a _coconut blender,_ Adrien. It just happens to blend basketballs as well.”

Adrien smiles at her, eyes glimmering. “Ah, yes, of course. My mistake. Obviously I’ve still got a lot to learn about cooking.”

“Comme deux gouttes d’eau,” Alya mutters, shaking her head. She sets the bag of groceries on the counter, next to Nino’s bag. “Anyway, all of your ingredients are here. Bonne chance!”

She and Nino hop onto the kitchen stools and watch Adrien and Marinette expectantly.

“Right,” Adrien says. His posture becomes slightly more rigid. “Let’s see…tomatoes first, I guess!”

He moves slowly, hesitantly, but he manages to properly seed the tomatoes and dice them. Marinette hovers over his shoulder and watches as he works, to make sure everything goes smoothly.

By the time Adrien sets the knife down, his hands are covered in tomato juice, with a rogue drop trickling down his index finger. Humming, he lifts the finger to his lips and licks off the juice.

Marinette smothers a groan. That’s just the sort of thing Chat would do—and, in fact, it’s the sort of thing that he _did_ once or twice during their cooking lessons. Since they’re partners, she never told him off; she and Chat have been in two many intimate situations for her to worry about a little bit of saliva on his gloves.

Adrien, however, is not Chat.

“Wash your hands!” Marinette says. “No one wants your saliva, Chef Agreste.”

“Oh,” Alya says. “I don’t know. Maybe Marinette does.”

“Alya!” Marinette shrieks. She can’t think about swapping spit with Adrien right now!

Adrien glances at Alya in confusion, sucking tomato juice off another finger. “Wait, what?”

Squeaking, Marinette grabs Adrien by his tomatoey wrists and yanks him over to the kitchen sink. She flicks the water on and frantically sprays soap onto his palms, then grabs them and rubs them together. She’s just gotten a nice lather going when Adrien starts laughing.

“Marinette,” he says, “I know how to wash my hands.”

Marinette freezes, coming to her senses. “Oh, mon dieu.” Still loosely gripping Adrien’s wrists, she watches as he rinses off his hands. “Sorry. I blanked.”

“And now you’ve got soap on your hands,” Adrien says, smiling mischievously. He grabs her hands and holds them under the water.

“Y-you don’t have to—”

“Allow me,” Adrien says with a wink.

A camera sound goes off behind them. “Alya!” Marinette snaps, glancing over her shoulder as Adrien’s fingers stroke hers. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Alya says. She peers over her phone at Marinette and Adrien, and although Marinette can’t see her mouth, she knows Alya is smirking. “I’m just documenting the cooking process.”

“Of course you are,” Marinette mutters.

She blushes as Adrien grabs the hand towel and dries her hands off. His touch is gentle, careful, soft; Marinette never would have thought that having someone dry her hands could make her heart skip a beat, and yet, that’s exactly what’s happening.

Adrien dries his own hands and sets the towel aside. “Now…the garlic, I guess.”

Marinette stares at him, her mouth partly open. Does he not realize how badly she’s blushing? He can’t be this oblivious. “Can I help?” she asks, voice higher than usual.

“No, wait,” Alya says. “I want to see him do the garlic.”

Adrien raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to come over there and do a demonstration?”

Alya glances at Nino, her brow furrowed. “Do we?”

“Sure?” Nino says. 

Snorting, Adrien carries the garlic cloves, knife, and cutting board over to the counter. Marinette mentally notes that this is a good start: he knows that garlic does not come pre-minced.

The three of them watch Adrien as he peels the garlic cloves and minces them. The entire ordeal is over within a minute or two, and if Marinette is being honest, it’s rather anticlimactic.

Adrien taps his knife against the cutting board, shaking off the few pieces of garlic clinging to it. “Satisfied?” he says.

Nino squints at the cutting board, as if he doesn’t understand how the garlic got minced. “You know how to mince garlic?”

Adrien laughs. “Don’t you?”

Marinette pulls out her phone and takes a picture of Alya and Nino’s bemused faces.

“What was that for?” Alya asks.

“Documenting the process,” Marinette says, winking.

Next is the onion. Adrien peels it and begins chopping, but he only lasts a few seconds before tears are streaming from his eyes. “Merde,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Why does it always _burn_ so much?”

“Always?” Nino murmurs to Alya. “Does that mean he’s cut an onion before?”

“Nino,” Alya says through gritted teeth. “Did you give me bad information?”

When Adrien starts sniffling over the onion, Marinette bumps her hips lightly against his. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I can finish the onion for you.” She reaches over and plucks the knife from his hand, her fingers brushing against his.

She’s had to do this once or twice for Chat, especially when a recipe called for two onions. The boy can face supervillains without trouble and perform death-defying stunts without a care—but somehow, he’s incapacitated by _onions._ Marinette shakes her head to herself and chops the last of the onion, blinking away the slight sting.

Finished with the onion, she turns to hand the knife back to her partner. Instead of Chat, though, it’s Adrien who accepts the handle of the knife with flushed cheeks. “Th-thanks, Marinette.”

Marinette feels her entire face heat. Somehow, for a moment, her brain had thought that she was cooking with Chat. So she’d bumped her hips against his, and when she took over chopping the onions, she’d pressed into his personal space, body brushing up against him.

But this isn’t Chat. This is _Adrien._

“I’m so sorry!” she says, waving her hands. Fortunately, she is no longer holding the knife.

“For…cutting the onion?” Adrien says. His cheeks are still pink. Marinette hopes he’s not having an allergic reaction to the onions.

“For invading your personal space!” Marinette says. “Oh, I’m a mess.”

She moves to hide her face behind her hands, and Adrien yelps. “Marinette, don’t!”

Lightning fast, he drops the knife and reaches out to grab her wrists. His fingers wrap around them, holding her hands away from her face.

Marinette blinks. “What?”

“Don’t touch your eyes!” Adrien says. His entire face is scrunched with worry.

“What do you mean?”

“You have onion juice on your hands. You were about to touch your eyes.”

Alya whistles. “A knight in shining armor!”

“Good save, man,” Nino says.

Marinette glares at both of them. “Can you _not?”_

Maybe she and Adrien _could_ have had a moment, if Alya and Nino weren’t constant spectators to their bonding time. Didn’t Alya set up this bet to help Marinette and Adrien get closer? If so, she isn’t doing a very good job.

“Sorry,” Adrien says. “I didn’t mean to overreact. But I’ve heard that really stings, so…” He ducks his head, blushing. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh.” Marinette giggles. “Well, thank you for saving me.”

Adrien laughs warmly. “Don’t worry, princesse. I’ll protect you from those dastardly bulb vegetables.”

Marinette mentally slams into a concrete wall. “Princesse?”

Suddenly, she’s imagining Chat in Adrien’s place—their faces are so similar, and their voices, too, now that she thinks about it—and the way Adrien said _princesse,_ Chat’s nickname for her…

“Uh,” Adrien says. He abruptly lets go of Marinette’s wrists and whirls around. “Because Alya called me your knight in shining armor. And every knight has a princess.”

“I thought it was the other way around,” Marinette says. “That every princess has a knight.”

“W-well.” Adrien peers over his shoulder at her. “What’s a knight, without someone to protect?” He laughs, turning back to the counter. “Besides, not every princess needs a knight. That’s a sexist trope.”

Alya clears her throat from behind them. “You know, I hate to interrupt…whatever this is—but I’d like to eat dinner sometime tonight.”

“Alya!” Marinette snaps. “It’s not polite to interrupt!”

“You two can always flirt later,” Alya says. “I’m hungry.”

“Alya! We’re not—”

“Next up is the chicken!” Adrien says, far too loudly.

Marinette takes a deep breath and exhales. The _princesse_ nickname was just a coincidence. Adrien even explained that he was playing off Alya’s comment—it makes total sense. So why can’t she shake the feeling that the word felt too natural on Adrien’s tongue?

She blames the fact that she spent the entire week cooking with Chat. Now the stupid cat has wormed his way into her thoughts, making her think of him when she should be thinking of Adrien.

“Disgusting,” Adrien says, holding a piece of chicken. “It’s so slimy.”

“Oh?” Alya says. “Never handled raw meat before, have you?”

“I have,” Adrien says. He wrinkles his nose as he sets the chicken on the cutting board. “But usually I wear gloves.” He pauses. “Wait. Was that a euphemism?”

Gloves. Chat wears gloves when he handles chicken. Oh, why can’t Marinette stop thinking about him? This is a disaster.

“I—uh—bathroom!” Marinette says. “I’ll be back.”

She scampers out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

“Tikki,” Marinette says, washing her hands in the sink, “I can’t do this! I keep thinking of—of him, and Chat, and kissing him, and kissing Chat, and it’s all so confusing, and—and—” She groans and leans against the sink. “Mince alors!” she exclaims. “I’m going to explode!”

“There’s nothing wrong with liking two boys,” Tikki says, floating above Marinette’s shoulder. “It seems like you and Adrien are having a lot of fun!”

“He called me _princesse_ , Tikki!” Marinette says. She finds herself tugging the ties out of her hair and anxiously redoing them. “Just like Chat! Except whenever Chat calls me that, he’s joking…but what if he’s not? What if Adrien’s not?”

Adrien…flirting with her? No, that’s impossible. He doesn’t like Marinette that way. There’s no evidence of that! Sure, he texted her lots of emoticons, and said he was lucky to have her, and asked her for baking lessons, and said _even if you set the chicken on the fire,_ and held her hands to wash them—but those were all platonic gestures!

Weren’t they?

“Oh, what a disaster!” Marinette moans.

As she leans against the sink and frets, there’s a quiet knock on the door. “Marinette?” Adrien’s voice asks. “Are you alright? Do you, uh, need anything? One of us could run to the pharmacy, if you…um…”

Marinette bites back a curse. Is Adrien suggesting that he could go buy her constipation medicine _again?_ No! One time was embarrassing enough!

“I’m fine!” she says. “J-just thinking.”

“Oh,” Adrien says. There’s a pause. “I—I thought I heard you say that you were going to explode?”

Marinette cracks the bathroom door open, if only to prove that she is _not_ stuck on the toilet. “No, no,” she says, peering at Adrien. He’s standing outside the door, wringing his hands anxiously, and the concern in his eyes is endearing. “I…it’s just, there’s not much space in the kitchen,” Marinette says, “so we’ve been touching a lot—and I get embarrassed easily, which is my fault, but…” She sighs. “Sorry. I made things weird.”

“Don’t apologize,” Adrien says. “I didn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. I was just…” He frowns. “I’m not sure.”

“No, no!” Marinette says, throwing the door open the rest of the way. “I love y—I mean, I like it! Or, um, I don’t hate it. I—it’s not a big deal. I don’t mind if you touch me.” She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to pray away the blush staining her cheeks. “I mean, you can do whatever you want.”

“Careful,” Adrien says, his voice teasing. “Or I might try to get a kiss.”

Marinette’s eyes fly open. “Quoi!”

Adrien’s eyes widen. “But I wouldn’t!” he says. “I—oh, no, why did I say that?”

“I don’t know,” Marinette says, suddenly distressed. “Why _did_ you say that?”

“I don’t know!” Adrien says. He waves his hands. “I—I might…sometimes…be a bit of a flirt?”

Adrien Agreste—shy, sweet, kind Adrien Agreste— _un charmeur?_ Marinette would never have guessed that. And yet, calling her princesse and asking for a kiss are the exact sort of things Chat would do. And Chat is, by all accounts, certainly a flirt. 

“Hey!” Alya calls from the kitchen. “I know we shouldn’t help, but since you two are so adorable—I’m pretty sure the recipe said _brown_ the chicken, not blacken it.”

Marinette shoves past Adrien and sprints over to the stove, and Adrien follows close on her heels. Frantically, she grabs a spatula and tries to scoop a piece of smoking chicken out of the skillet—but of course, her clumsiness sends it flying into the air instead.

Adrien surges forward and catches it in one of his hands. Then he yowls in pain and tosses it onto the counter. “Hot,” he hisses.

“I’ll get ice,” Marinette says, moving to set down the spatula.

“No! Don’t worry about me!” Adrien says, cradling his hand. “Save the chicken!”

Marinette removes the skillet from the burner and uses tongs to retrieve the rest of the chicken pieces. Here and there, bits are blackened, and the kitchen smells faintly of acrid smoke—but at least some of the chicken survives.

With the chicken crisis partly averted, they take a brief recess to make sure Adrien’s hand isn’t burned. He sits on one of the kitchen stools while Marinette holds his hand and inspects it. “I don’t think it’s too burned,” she says. “But we’ll ice it just in case!”

As she presses an ice pack against his hand, Adrien laughs. “Now who’s the gallant knight, hm?”

Marinette snorts. “Does that make you a prince?”

“Or princess,” Adrien says. “Nino keeps telling me I’m basically a Disney princess.”

“Because you are,” Nino says. “Marinette, have you ever gotten stuck in an elevator with him while he sings ‘When Will My Life Begin’? Because I’ve gotten stuck in an elevator with him while he sings ‘When Will My Life Begin.’”

Adrien pouts at him. “Only because you didn’t want to sing Eugene’s part for ‘I See the Light.’”

“That would have been even worse.”

“Well, I’m never getting stuck in an elevator with _you_ again,” Adrien says. He sticks his tongue out at Nino, and Marinette laughs.

Nino rolls his eyes. “You’re going to replace me?”

“I have needs, Nino,” Adrien says, which prompts a cackle from Alya. “And one of those is having someone who will spontaneously sing Disney duets with me.”

“Ooh, pick Luka,” Alya says. “He’s a better sport than Nino.”

Nino snorts. “Adrien wouldn’t be able to sing if he was stuck in an elevator with Luka. He’d be too busy swooning.”

“Nino!” Adrien says.

“You know I’m right.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I like Disney songs,” Marinette blurts out. “Um—not—not that I would want to be stuck in an elevator!”

Adrien leans forward, smiling. “Would you sing with me, if we _were_ stuck?”

“Of course!” Marinette says. “That would be fun.”

“So,” Adrien says, “if I asked you right now to sing—”

He’s interrupted by the sound of Alya’s stomach growling. Marinette casts a withering look her way.

“My bad,” Alya says. “I wasn’t planning to interrupt you two that time.”

With a sigh, Marinette removes the ice pack from Adrien’s hand and puts it back in the freezer.

They sauté the garlic and onion next, then add the tomatoes and wait for a few minutes. Once the meat is added back into the skillet and various spices are sprinkled into the mixture, Adrien sets the can of coconut milk on the counter and grabs the can opener.

The entire kitchen falls silent. Three pairs of eyes lock onto Adrien, staring as he attaches the can opener to the can. “The grand finale,” Alya murmurs.

Marinette finds herself holding her breath, even though she’s almost certain that Adrien will be fine.

Oblivious to the attention he’s getting, Adrien twists the can opener until the lid of the can pops off, then sets it aside and pours the milk into the skillet.

Alya jumps to her feet. “That’s not Adrien Agreste!” she says, an accusatory finger pointed at Adrien. “That’s an akuma!”

“Alya,” Nino says. “I don’t think he’s an akuma.” He stares at Adrien in confusion. “But, dude…you don’t know how to use a can opener.”

Adrien looks at the can opener, then the skillet, then the empty can. “It looks like I do.” Shrugging, he grabs a spoon and stirs the coconut milk into the chicken and sauce.

“Wait,” Nino says quietly. “Alya, have we been…”

“Impossible,” she mutters.

“Alya,” Nino says, more insistently. “We—”

“No! No, it can’t be.”

“We…we’ve been conned.” Nino takes off his cap and runs a hand across his head. “Alya. This was a _set-up.”_

Laughing, Adrien carries the can over to the sink and rinses it out. Marinette joins him, completely baffled. His nerves had seemed so authentic—was he really just acting? Sure, he’s not a master chef, but he clearly knows more than he let Nino think.

“So,” Marinette whispers. “Was this all a con?”

Adrien turns to her and winks. Marinette decides that Mayor Bourgeois should declare that act illegal in Paris, because heavens, Adrien Agreste could kill someone with his winking.

“Really?” Marinette says. “Because Nino told me some…um, stories. Like, corn cobs, and…”

Adrien laughs. “Well, you saw my acting skills earlier.” He snorts and shakes water out of the can. “Juicing coconuts.”

“So you played all of us? Or were my cooking guides just really good?”

Adrien glances at Alya and Nino, who are still having a meltdown a few meters away. Leaning close to murmur in her ear, he says, “Mostly the second one. I wasn’t faking the nerves.” He pulls back a little bit, just enough to look in Marinette’s eyes. His face is so close that she can see the flecks of golden brown in his irises. “As for the stories Nino told you…no comment.”

“N-no…comment…” Marinette blinks rapidly, flustered by how close Adrien’s face is to hers. “So—so you really thought that—”

“No comment,” Adrien repeats, laughing.

Marinette laughs along with him, and Alya groans. “Sure, laugh it up, you two,” she says. “Agreste, you really had me going. I thought you’d be serving soup with a slotted spoon.”

“Oh, I’m not that bad,” Adrien says. He’s wearing an uncharacteristically wide grin that reminds Marinette, yet again, of Chat. “That’s your fault for underestimating me.”

“We’ll see,” Alya says, arms crossed. “It’s not over until we taste the food.”

But as the chicken simmers on the stove and fills the air with mouth-watering scents, Marinette and Adrien are pretty sure they’ve already won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and/or leaving kudos! Also, Happy Holidays! For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I hope you had a merry one. And unless I'm mistaken, tonight is the last night of Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa continues until January 1--so, Happy Hanukkah and Kwanzaa to anyone who's celebrating!
> 
>  **Translations** :  
> super facile – super easy  
> Poulet coco réunionnais – Réunion Coconut Chicken  
> Bonne chance – good luck  
> Beau – handsome, good-looking; bien – fine, good  
> Comme deux gouttes d’eau – like two peas in a pod (literally “like two drops of water”)  
> un charmeur – a flirt  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much to everyone who's read this fic! I hope you enjoy this final chapter. 
> 
> Also, I know that most of my fics are Lukadrien fics, but I do have one other multi-chapter Adrien/Marinette fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703560/chapters/46629526), for those of you who haven't already read it :)

Around an hour later, Marinette and Adrien breathe a sigh of relief as they serve Alya and Nino their dinner. Aside from the close call with the chicken, nothing else had gone horribly wrong with their cooking.

Alya folds her arms, inspecting the chicken dish in front of her. “Don’t think I didn’t see you picking around all the burnt pieces. Because I totally did.”

“Only the best for our favorite judge,” Adrien says, hopping onto the stool across from her. He uses a fork to poke a burnt piece of chicken floating on his plate. “Unless you _want_ the burned bits…”

Marinette frowns as she sits next to him. “Adrien, you didn’t have to take all of the bad pieces for yourself.”

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “It’s my fault the chicken got burned.”

“But I’m the one who ran off to the bathroom,” Marinette points out. “If you hadn’t come after me—”

“Okay!” Alya says. “How about we say it’s both your faults, and leave it at that?” She grabs a spoon and wags it at the two of them. “Of course, I _will_ have to deduct some points for that chicken mishap. That was definitely negligent cooking.”

“Alya,” Adrien says. He sounds like he might cry. “You’re not saying I lost the bet because of some burnt chicken, are you?”

Alya raises her eyebrows. “I said I’d deduct points. Not that you lose.” She scoops some chicken and rice onto her spoon and lifts it from the plate. “If this chicken tastes as good as it smells, you should be safe.”

Marinette holds her breath as Alya lifts the spoon to her mouth. She jumps slightly when Adrien’s hand wraps around hers underneath the table, clinging tightly to her fingers.

“Sorry,” Adrien whispers. “I, uh…”

Marinette smiles and squeezes his hand. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers back. “And if you somehow lose and have to go to that concert, you won’t be alone. I’ll be there to help with your banana.”

Adrien squeezes his eyes shut, entire face flushing pink. “Y-you—uh—maybe we shouldn’t say _my banana?”_

With a yelp, Marinette snatches her hand away from Adrien’s. “Right!” she says. “I—I mean, he’s everyone’s banana. The city’s banana. Paris’s favorite banana.”

“Oh?” Adrien says. The blush fades from his face, and his voice takes on a teasing lilt. “Is he your favorite banana, too?”

“I—I mean—” Stupidly, her brain chooses that moment to remind her of Bananoir. “Th-there might be…one…other banana.”

“Sounds like you’re a pretty big fan of this _other banana.”_

“He has a very nice banana,” Marinette says, nodding. “Suit! A very nice banana suit! And that is the only banana he has. Or, um, he technically has another, but—I mean, I’m sure it’s also…uh, nice…”

Adrien’s forehead hits the table with a _thunk._

Hesitantly, Marinette pokes his arm. Did she just incapacitate Adrien Agreste with an accidental banana euphemism? But she wasn’t even talking about his banana! She was talking about Chat Noir’s! Wait, no. Not his banana. His banana _suit._ That’s perfectly innocent!

Across from them, Alya makes a pleased humming sound. Lightning fast, Adrien lifts his head from the table to stare at her.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

Alya nods. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Agreste. You’re a decent chef.”

Adrien buries his face against the table once more. “Dieu merci,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Nino says, “this is really good, man. I’m impressed.” He tugs on his cap. “But oh, dude. Three hundred episodes of anime? That’s going to be a lot.”

“Not exactly,” Alya says, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. Marinette can tell that she’s trying to hide how much she enjoys the food. “Remember the point deduction? You get one show, or one hundred episodes of anime. That’s how much this chicken earned you.”

“I’ll take it,” Adrien says, sitting up. His hand comes to rest on Marinette’s shoulder, sending a pleasant warmth straight to her bones. “And now that that’s settled, I’d like to dedicate my binge-watch to Marinette. This wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

“Does that mean no anime?” Nino whispers to Alya. “I think this means no anime.”

“Quiet,” Alya says, elbowing Nino in the ribs.

“Oh, I—I didn’t do much,” Marinette says. She laughs. “I just scooped some chicken out of the skillet and chopped half an onion.”

Marinette still can’t quite believe that part. She’d been so certain that she would have to take charge and save Adrien from a terrible defeat in the kitchen—and then he’d gone and practically cooked the entire meal all by himself. Did he really learn all of that from online cooking guides? It seems impossible, and yet, there’s no other explanation.

She glances over at Adrien, only to find that he’s leaned into her space, his face much closer to hers than she expected. “Trust me,” he says, winking. “You helped more than you realize.”

Marinette stares at him in confusion. What is _that_ supposed to mean?

“Also,” Adrien says, turning back to his food, “I’m looking forward to my baking lessons.” He takes a bite of chicken and chews, humming. “Oh, hey. This isn’t too bad.”

“Baking lessons?” Marinette says.

“You said you’d show me how to bake a pie, remember?” Adrien says. He raises an eyebrow. “Or are you too intimidated by my awesome cooking skills?”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette shoves his shoulder lightly. “Don’t tell me you’re secretly an expert at baking, too.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not.” Adrien points his fork at Marinette, leaning close to her. “That’s why I need _you_ to teach me.”

A camera sound goes off.

Marinette glares at Alya and her phone. “How is this _documenting the process?”_

“Oh, it’s not,” Alya says, smirking. “You two just looked cute.”

“Yeah,” Adrien says, “Marinette _is_ pretty cute.”

Marinette’s face flushes. “I—I am?”

Alya’s mouth falls open. “Did you just call Marinette cute?”

“Yeah,” Adrien says. But, wait—is that a smirk tugging at his lips? Oh, no. Marinette has the feeling he’s about to say something utterly Chat-like.

Then Marinette sees an opportunity to disrupt him: the piece of chicken on his fork, which is still hovering right near her mouth.

“Très mignonne,” Adrien says. “Or should I say, _filet_ mign—”

Marinette dives forward and bites the piece of chicken off his fork.

Adrien yelps. He stares at her with betrayal in his eyes. “Marinette!”

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “You were about to make a bad food pun.”

Adrien’s lower lip juts out in a pout. “That was my chicken.”

Marinette chews and swallows the piece, trying not to wince at the bitter burned taste. “Not anymore.”

“And I wasn’t going to make a bad pun!”

“That’s debatable.”

“I take it back,” Adrien says. “You’re not cute. You’re mean. You’re filet _méchant_.”

Marinette groans. “That was even worse.”

“No, wait,” Adrien says. “You’re filet _oignon_. You know why?”

“No,” Marinette deadpans, even though she knows exactly why Adrien just called her an onion.

“Because you make me cry,” Adrien says, pouting again. He points to his eyes. “See, Marinette? Do you see my tears?”

Marinette snorts. “Try not to cry in your food. You wouldn’t want to add too much salt.”

“Hey,” Alya says, “are you two going to eat, or are you going to flirt until your food gets cold?”

“We’re not flirting!” Marinette squeaks. She turns back to her food and picks up her fork, chasing a piece of chicken around her plate. “Not flirting.”

She definitely wasn’t flirting with Adrien. She doesn’t even know _how_ to flirt with him! And besides, he doesn’t like her that way. They were just teasing each other. Plenty of friends do that.

Adrien laughs nervously, his face as bright red as the tomatoes he cut earlier. “W-we—I was just—hey, look! There’s chicken on this plate!” Still blushing, he shoves a forkful of chicken and rice into his mouth.

Marinette glares at Alya. Did she really have to say that and make Adrien uncomfortable? Marinette wasn’t trying to make things romantic.

Alya grins and flashes her a thumbs-up.

Once plates are emptied and dishes washed, Marinette retrieves a chocolate cake she’d helped her father make the day before. Before she can serve it, though, Alya and Nino gather their things and join her by the sink.

“Sorry, girl,” Alya says. “We’ve got some errands to run.”

“Errands?” Marinette asks, brow furrowed. She glances at Adrien, who’s sitting by himself at the kitchen table. He smiles when their eyes meet.

“We’re trying to get you two alone,” Nino says.

Alya elbows him. “Nino,” she says. “You said the quiet part out loud again.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, “no, really, you can stay. That’s not necess—”

“See you around!” Alya says.

Then she grabs Nino and drags him out of the apartment, before Marinette and Adrien can properly say goodbye.

Adrien stares after them, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Marinette says. She cuts two large slices of cake—because really, _someone_ should eat Alya and Nino’s portions—and serves them onto plates for her and Adrien. “You know how those two like to have their alone time.”

Adrien snorts. “Yeah. They’re pretty big fans of Super Penguino.”

Marinette laughs and slides onto the stool next to Adrien, setting the plates down in front of them. She’s pretty sure Adrien starts drooling when he sees the cake.

“Wow,” he says, eyes wide. “Did you make this?”

Hearing the awe in his voice, Marinette can’t help but blush a little. “I helped, yes.”

Adrien smiles at her. “That’s amazing.”

At that, her stupid mind starts wondering—could she have this, one day? Cooking with someone every night, bumping hips, touching hands, laughing and joking in the kitchen. Decadent desserts, silly food puns. A loving smile, warm green eyes…and oh, no, she’s not even sure who she’s thinking of.

She’s always wanted this with Adrien. But now, with him here, she’s reminded of how much she would miss having Chat around. Somehow, it feels wrong to choose one over the other.

Marinette wishes she could confide in Alya about this. Even if she could, though, Alya would just snort and tell her to date both boys. And, well—if Adrien’s crush on Luka is anything to go by, maybe he wouldn’t be opposed to dating Marinette and Chat? He’s never _mentioned_ a crush on Chat, but, come on. Horrible flirting and ridiculous food puns? They’re a match made in heaven.

She could test it out. See how the two get along, maybe. She still has some more cooking lessons with Chat, and Adrien wants baking lessons. Chat would probably want baking lessons, too, right? Maybe she could combine them.

Marinette pokes Adrien’s arm. “You know that friend I was helping? I don’t suppose you’d be interested in combined baking lessons? You, me, and him?”

Adrien raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry, Marinette. Three’s a crowd, isn’t it? I’d rather have you to myself.”

“H-have me—to—”

“Are you sure you can keep track of both of us?” Adrien continues. “I mean, we’d both have no idea what we’re doing. I’m concerned there would be some sort of kitchen accident.”

Marinette groans. He’s right. She imagines it, _actually_ imagines it, now: Adrien would second-guess every step, moving carefully and slowly, all while Chat tries to show off what a quick learner he is. They’d end up competing, wouldn’t they? She knows that Adrien has a competitive streak. And of course, Adrien would be hyper-focused on Marinette the entire time, asking her if she’s okay every time she blushes or squeaks—and she’d be so distracted that she wouldn’t notice Chat sneaking cookie dough out of the bowl behind her back.

And if one of them made a food pun and found out that the other boy likes punning just as much…oh, no, it would never stop. Marinette would be drowning in soup jokes and quips about cheese.

Worse, if Chat and Adrien _really_ hit it off, there might not be any room left for her. What if her baking lessons make them fall in love, and they run off together, and they start a restaurant with some awful food pun for a name, and they forget all about her and she spends the rest of her life alone and—

“Marinette?” Adrien says.

“I’ll keep you two separate,” Marinette says. She swallows, gathering all of the sass she usually reserves for Chat. “But you don’t have to lie. I know why you _really_ want separate lessons.”

Adrien’s eyes widen slightly. For a moment, he almost looks scared. “Y-you do?”

“Yeah.” Marinette leans forward. “You want me to yourself, because otherwise you can’t flirt with me. I haven’t forgotten that you asked for a kiss, you know.”

A sigh gusts from Adrien’s lungs. “Oh! Uh, y-yeah, that’s it! You caught me. Just trying to get a kiss.” His eyes go wide again. “No, wait! I—I wouldn’t—I didn’t ask for a kiss. T-technically I said I _might_ ask for a kiss. I never asked.”

Marinette shrugs, heart thudding loudly in her ears as she feigns nonchalance. “So you don’t want one? Suit yourself.”

“I—I mean…” Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t be _opposed.”_

Marinette’s head snaps to face him. “What?”

Adrien stares at her like a deer in headlights. Then, in a way that’s all too familiar, his expression morphs into a playful smirk. “I feel like I deserve a reward for cooking so well.”

“That’s why we’re having cake,” Marinette says. She stabs her fork into her slice to distract herself. “Besides, I thought I _helped you more than I realize_. I think I’ve done enough.”

Adrien’s silent for a moment. When Marinette glances at him, she sees his lower lip jutting out and his wide, shining eyes trained on her. “Marinette,” he whines.

Marinette sighs. What is _this?_ This is right out of Chat’s playbook! Flirt, tease, and then pout when he doesn’t get his way. It’s absurd. How did she get stuck with the two most handsome, infuriating boys in Paris? How are they so much alike? It’s not fair.

“No one in Paris would believe me if I told them this,” Marinette grumbles. She shoves a bite of cake into her mouth. “Paris’s most eligible teen bachelor, begging for a kiss. As if you don’t have dozens of boys and girls lining up to kiss you every day!”

“But I didn’t cook chicken for them,” Adrien says, still pouting.

“You didn’t cook it for me, either,” Marinette points out. “You cooked it for the bet.”

“Sort of,” Adrien says. The pout slips off his face, replaced by a soft smile. “Honestly, Marinette, I was more worried about messing up in front of you than I was about winning the bet. I didn’t want you to think I was stupid or incompetent.”

“Quoi!” Marinette says. “Adrien, I would never think that.”

Adrien raises an eyebrow. “So if I hadn’t known how to use a can opener, or had forgotten to peel the garlic—you wouldn’t have thought, even for a second, that I was dumb?”

Thinking of Chat, Marinette shakes her head. “Not for a second. I might have been a little surprised, if you’d said you knew how to cook and then didn’t know those things. But I wouldn’t think you were dumb.” Hesitantly, she reaches out and rests her hand on his. “I—I think you’re amazing, Adrien. Really. Even if you didn’t know how to cook, I’d still think that.”

Adrien gives her a brilliant smile. “That’s good. Because, can I be honest? The first time I cooked garlic, I totally forgot to peel it. And I spent the majority of my life not knowing how to use a can opener.”

 _You’re in good company,_ Marinette thinks, remembering Chat’s first time cooking. “That’s not so bad.”

“Right. S-so, uh…” Adrien rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. Marinette notices that he hasn’t tried to move her hand from his. “Do I pass? I mean, are you impressed, or—well, not impressed, that’s the wrong word, but, I, well…”

At first, all Marinette can do is stare at Adrien. He risked humiliation in the kitchen just because he wanted to prove himself to her? That can’t be right. And yet, isn’t that basically what he just said? How ridiculously sweet of him.

She leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek. “Very impressed,” she says, her face warm.

“G-good. Uh. That’s good.” Adrien smiles, blushing. “I don’t suppose you want a reward, too?”

“I already have one,” Marinette points out. “One hundred episodes of whatever show I want.” She nudges him with her elbow. “You didn’t have to give away your prize, you know. I would’ve loved to watch Alya and Nino suffer through a hundred episodes of anime.”

Adrien laughs. “You still could. It’s your choice.”

“Maybe you can make some recommendations,” Marinette says. “I don’t actually mind anime, so—”

“Really?” Adrien says. “Because if you want, there are a few shows I’ve been meaning to rewatch. We could watch them together, if you want? I’ll try not to make too much commentary.”

Marinette smiles, mentally cheering. Sitting on a couch with Adrien, watching his favorite shows together? It’s not quite a date, but it’s definitely a step forward. “I’d like that.”

After that, they eat their cake in comfortable silence. Adrien eats his with little grace, getting smudges of chocolate and crumbs all over his face. Strangely, it’s nice to see him lack decorum. It makes him seem more…real.

And more Chat-like, but Marinette refuses to let her brain go there.

It’s not until she’s halfway done eating her slice of cake that a horrible realization hits her.

_I don’t suppose you want a reward, too?_

Adrien’s reward had been a kiss on the cheek. Does that mean…did…

Did Marinette just _TURN DOWN A KISS FROM ADRIEN AGRESTE?_

Oh, she did. And she said she wanted one hundred episodes of anime instead.

Marinette sighs, taking another bite of cake. At least Alya left before this disaster occurred—because if she had witnessed Marinette’s epic failure just now, she would never let her live it down.

On the bright side, thanks to the baking lessons and anime marathon, Marinette will still get to spend more time with Adrien. And hearing his laugh, seeing his smile…really, isn’t that enough of a reward? Spending time with Adrien is worth more than a little kiss on the cheek.

She still wishes that she had said yes to the kiss, though.

* * *

Later that night, Marinette stands on her balcony and sips from a cup of tea, her entire body weak with relief.

Adrien had left a few hours ago, smiling on his way out the door and rambling about all the different anime shows that they could watch together. The names and premises have all blended together in Marinette’s mind, to the point that all she really remembers is something about gay ice skaters and a basket of fruit.

As he left, Marinette swears he leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek—but Marinette, being the fool that she is, had halted him with a fist bump instead.

“A _fist bump,_ Tikki,” she groans, as steam from the tea warms her face. “What was I thinking?”

“You’ll have another chance to let him kiss you!” Tikki says. “I’d still count today as a success.” Then she squeaks and dives into one of Marinette’s planters. From within a tangle of flowers, she whispers, “It’s Chat Noir!”

Marinette scans the sky, and sure enough, Chat comes soaring through the night air a moment later. He lands on Marinette’s balcony railing and gives an elaborate bow, somehow managing not to fall off the railing as he does so.

“Bonsoir, princesse,” he says. “You’re having a good evening, I hope?”

Marinette nods, taking another sip of tea. “I survived.”

“You won the bet?” Chat asks. “Or did it end in disaster?”

“We won,” Marinette says. “No Monsieur Banane.”

“Félicitations!” Chat says. He drops into a crouch on the railing, then sits down with his legs dangling over Marinette’s balcony. “That’s a relief.”

“Don’t be too quick to congratulate me,” Marinette says. “I’m pretty sure I made a fool of myself.”

Chat raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that.” 

Marinette levels him with a flat look. “Alright. Use your imagination for a second.”

Laughing, Chat closes his eyes. “Okay. I’m imagining.”

“You’re sitting in the kitchen next to a really cute guy.”

Chat hums, a smile playing at his lips. “Oh, I like where this is going.”

Marinette lightly shoves his arm. “I thought Ladybug was your one and only?”

Chat makes a _shushing_ sound. “Quiet, Marinette. It’s not every day I get to be in the kitchen with a cute boy.”

Snorting, Marinette says, “Alright. So you’re sitting next to a cute boy. You’ve been flirting with him for the past hour or two, and—”

“You were flirting with him?” Chat asks, forehead creased.

Marinette holds her cup of tea close to her chest, regarding Chat. “Chat, are you _jealous?”_

“No,” Chat says, the lines disappearing from his face. “It’s just, I thought this was a bet. I didn’t realize you had a date.” He waggles his eyebrows, unable to wink with his eyes closed.

“It wasn’t a date!” Marinette says. “Can you let me finish?”

“Alright, alright. I’m listening.”

“So you’re with this boy, he’s cute, you’ve both been flirting, and he offers to give you a kiss on the cheek. What do you do?”

Chat scrunches his entire face up, as if he’s deep in thought. “I…make passionate love to him on the kitchen table?”

“Chat!” Marinette squeaks. She shoves him without thinking, and he flails for a moment, nearly losing his balance.

“Hey!” Chat says, eyes flying open. “Careful, princesse! I know I have superpowers, but I’d rather not lose one of my lives falling off your balcony.” He squints at her, pursing his lips. “I suppose I’d let the cute boy kiss me. But something tells me that’s not what you did.”

Marinette groans. “If only. I panicked and told him I didn’t need a kiss, because I’d rather watch one hundred episodes of anime.”

“I mean, anime is pretty cool,” Chat says. “I’m sure he wouldn’t hold that against you.” He leans forward, gripping the balcony railing to keep his balance. “So—so you _wanted_ this boy to kiss you?”

“I—well, I…”

Chat raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Maybe a little,” Marinette grumbles.

“My kiss last night wasn’t enough for you?”

A blush heats Marinette’s cheeks. “I thought your kiss was a joke!”

“Hm.” Chat kicks his legs, head tilted to the side in thought. “Did you still have a good time otherwise? Or did this silly boy ruin your night?”

“He’s not silly,” Marinette says. She sighs. “I guess the important thing is that we won the bet and had fun. But I can’t believe I said no to a kiss.”

Chat gives her a sly smile. “Do you want me to make it up to you?”

“Chat!”

“Marinette,” he says, grinning. “If you want a kiss, all you have to do is ask.”

“Charmeur,” she says.

“I confess,” Chat says, “I am sometimes a bit of a flirt.”

Adrien’s words from before flash through her mind—shyer, more nervous, but the same sentiment. “That makes two of you,” Marinette mutters. She sets her teacup on the balcony table and turns back to Chat, her arms folded. “Why would a kiss from you make things better?”

Chat holds up his hand and counts off fingers as he makes a list. “I’m devastatingly handsome, you spent all week putting up with me—doesn’t that deserve a reward?—and I could be wrong, princesse, but I _think_ you might have a crush on me.”

Marinette’s face heats with a blush. “H-how…”

How did Chat find out about her crush on him? Merde, _Marinette_ just found out about her crush on Chat! He can’t possibly know already.

“Papa Garou?” Chat says. He winks. “Plus a few other things you’ve said.”

Stuttering random syllables, Marinette glances around the balcony, searching for something to look at besides Chat’s handsome face. “Th-that—I—you—what about _you?”_ She points an accusatory finger at Chat. “It’s not nice to tease if you don’t reciprocate.”

Chat smiles. “You know me, Marinette,” he says. “I’m always nice.”

Marinette presses her lips together. Chat has a crush on her? She shouldn’t be surprised, really, since he’s always liked Ladybug, but it’s still caught her a bit off-guard. “Wait. Were your cooking lessons just an excuse to spend more time with me?”

“Oh, no,” Chat says, laughing. “I definitely needed emergency cooking lessons.”

“But why would you need—”

“Spending time with you was nice, though,” Chat says, cutting her off. “Marinette, I think you’re really sweet and incredible. I mean, you pretty much taught me how to cook in three days, which shows how amazingly kind and dedicated you are. And I’d still like to keep cooking with you, if you, uh…if you have room for me. I mean, it sounds like you’d like to pursue this other guy, but—”

“I’ll take that kiss now!” Marinette says, face burning. Anything to stop Chat’s monologue, which is currently making her heart do all sorts of acrobatics in her chest.

“Oh.” Chat stares at her with wide eyes. “Right. Sure.”

Still sitting on the balcony railing, he leans forward and presses his lips to her cheek. Marinette’s eyes close, and she sways slightly underneath the soft feeling of his mouth on her skin.

“Congratulations on winning your bet, princesse,” Chat murmurs. “Then again, I knew you would.”

Marinette squeezes her eyes shut, trying to keep her breathing steady. Two blonde boys swim around in her mind, all green eyes and sweet smiles, and as hard as she tries, she can’t bring herself to pick one. There’s no _Beef Bourguignon Super Facile_ that’s easy to throw away. Both boys are so kind, so dear to her, that she can’t possibly choose.

Damn these two dorks. How dare they confuse her heart so much? She might have won the bet and gotten closer to Chat, but this past week has officially thrown her love life into chaos.

After a few seconds pass, Marinette’s eyes flutter open. Chat’s face still looms close to hers, and there’s a warm smile on his face, soft and shy like Adrien’s. Once again, she thinks it would be so much easier if she didn’t have to choose—and in her love-induced haze, she can’t help but blurt out one cursed thought from earlier:

“How would you feel about dating me and Adrien?”

Chat jerks backward, slips off the balcony, and tumbles to the street below with a crash. He holds his hand in a thumbs-up above his head—which could either mean _I’m okay_ or _yes, Marinette, let’s date Adrien_ —and then he groans and lets his face fall flat on the sidewalk.

Marinette echoes his groan, hiding her face in her hands. Her dueling feelings for Adrien and Chat are almost bound to be a recipe for disaster, and yet, she can’t bring herself to be concerned.

In fact, she feels the opposite. She’s looking _forward_ to attempting that particular dish.

(Later, when Chat holds an ice pack to his head and mutters a strangely familiar phrase about his lettuce being on fire, Marinette thinks he might be concussed—but really, that’s just the first ingredient in a recipe for a reveal.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I've never made these recipes, but I based the carrot soup from Chapter 2 on [this recipe](https://www.marmiton.org/recettes/recette_petite-soupe-de-carottes-au-lait-de-coco_26236.aspx) and the coconut chicken on [this](https://www.marmiton.org/recettes/recette_poulet-coco-reunionnais_16242.aspx).
> 
> Also, one quick note: I know some of you have asked about this, and I'm glad that y'all like this fic so much--but I am not planning to write a sequel to this fic! I like where I ended things, plus I have dozens of other ideas for fics that I'd like to write for y'all. Thank you so much for your support!
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  Dieu merci – Thank god  
> très mignonne – very cute; filet mignon – tenderloin (meat)  
> méchant – mean  
> Bonsoir, princesse – Good evening, princess  
> Félicitations – Congratulations  
> 


End file.
